


Supplicant

by Holdt, spacewolfcub



Series: The Agency'verse [1]
Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU, Gotham (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Body Dysphoria, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Consent Issues, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Genital Torture, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Misandry, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Relationship Negotiation, Stalking, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewolfcub/pseuds/spacewolfcub
Summary: Only he can pull Bruce out of the darkness... The training and scars of Nanda Parbat run deep— Bruce has always fought the demons that make him want to stalk the night and rend pain unto the deserving. After a decade of trying to stay afloat, using BDSM as both punishment and moral compass, he turns to The Agency. Through them, he finds Mistress Ivy, whose Services help him keep ahead of the encroaching darkness... until he finds his lifeline gone without warning when Ivy's extreme methods and poison play are revealed and she is exiled.The Agency has a reputation to uphold, secretive as they are. For years, they've offered him a chance at salvation—for a price. It is no different now and Bruce grasps desperately at their offer. Can the Service Provider known as Mr. S, the so-called “SuperDom,” help him rein in the Bat?Only he can bring Clark into the light... When you've been on the run for as long as Clark, you know the look of a drowning man. The Agency asked him to consider this new client, one whose need tempts Clark beyond the well-established boundaries he's set for himself. Can the Bat inspire him to explore his own needs and desires outside of the perfect image of Mr. S he's spent years hiding behind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are/will be brief side-character appearances in this series from Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel the Series, Bones, Criminal Minds, and the Stargate franchise.
> 
> It's been a long and weird road to get here. We have a lot of people to thank for that, and for helping us make it here. A huge thank you to [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter), [cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8) and [bonehandledknife (ladywinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife%22) for their grammar and excellent beta questions. To Smiley for a four-hour long live line by line html proofreading and for company on that last long haul. To everyone on the Pit and SuperbatBang discords for endless sprints, sympathy, company and cheerleading. To everyone else (you know who you are) who has listened to me bitch, whine, complain, harangue characters and generally make an ass of myself on voice channels. You all really are the best fandom fam around.
> 
> There's [beautiful art both here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972507) by [ Ms.3](https://twitter.com/ms3_fandomart) to accompany this fic and below, as well as a [fanmix to listen to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/33gjiTRMoubfd0ToBqZC32?si=LHEc9yhbR2GHCqwbYaSeyQ) while you read.

"Truth is, everybody is gonna hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for."

— in dispute, though most frequently attributed to Bob Marley

It was a nice enough day that Clark walked the three city miles into the Agency. He didn't dawdle much — he had work to do, namely filing his reports for the last three days' worth of clients. 

The Agency took confidentiality seriously and required reports in hard copy to minimize the risk of leaks. Many of his associates at the Agency, other Service Providers, used Agency Couriers to file their reports. Clark had been burned too badly by trusting the wrong people before; he preferred the ironclad approach, which meant all his Agency reports were done in person. 

On a quiet lane not far from the bustle of urban traffic past the marked turnoff, the Agency's sleek, gleaming façade reflected the sky above and minimized the impact its sprawling structures had on the Gotham block it commandeered. Other pedestrians hurried past, eyes on their devices or the sidewalk. People expected a business building and that is what they saw. Unbranded, unmarked, the building may as well have been invisible for all the notice most paid. 

  


There were an unusual number of dour faces as he made his way through the building. By the time he got to Archives, there was also a constant buzz of activity. It seemed to center around a conference room where a rather large team of what were probably lawyers pored over Agency files, while surrounded by multiple small skyscrapers of archive boxes.

Something must have gone wrong —and badly— to have this many suits and tense postures in one place, so Clark filed his reports carefully and made a note to make personal copies of all his appointments this week for his Vault. He did his best to ignore the intrusion into what he'd considered a mostly private space, as well as the curious looks from beady-eyed suits as he left — the last thing Clark needed was attention from people with such flexible morals. 

He bumped into Natasha, the Widowmaker, on his way across the hall to Accounts Payable. Or as Steve and she called it, 'Payouts'. 

A little into his first year at the Agency, Clark had been introduced to the two Providers. They'd somehow taken a shine to him — decided, seemingly overnight, that he was one of them. They'd shown him both 'the ropes' and the first taste of no-strings companionship since Smallville. He would always be grateful for it.

Their friendship in the time since had been invaluable to his stability, and his efforts to move on from his past mistakes.

The top of Natasha's head barely came up to his shoulder, but anyone who mistook her soft, curvaceous form for weakness —or even worse, subservience— was sure to get a rude awakening. She was small, but she bristled with authority, even in the midst of this chaos.

  


"So what is that called?" he said with a nod in the direction of Archives. "A flock? A murder of lawyers?"  
  
Natasha smirked. "That's called covering your ass." 

Natasha was one of his favorite people for a reason.  
  
"That seems like a lot more attention than the usual lawsuit gets." Because of course the Agency and its Agents got sued pretty regularly. However, in the past it had been handled more discreetly than this.

She eyed him significantly. "Mistress Ivy was asked to leave."

"Wow... The whole Agency?" It happened, though it was a rarity that anyone crossed enough provable lines to get not just down-ranked, but booted out.  
  
Natasha tilted her head sharply as they fell into step together — her version of a head-shake. "The continent. She was encouraged to take a position in Bhutan, last I heard, though she'll go with Indonesia if she's smart. Less regulation and therefore less chance her past employment will end up being dragged into the light."  
  
Ivy hadn't been booted. She'd been _banished_. "Ouch. So this is... Trying to find where the next lawsuit is coming from."

"Looks like. Most of her clients are being reassigned immediately; trauma and such."

"But _Indonesia_..." Clark said. Less regulation? Try _no_ regulation.

"Jungles, skeevy politics, trafficking and corrupt law enforcement—" One shoulder lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "Right up her alley."  
  
"How do you know?" Clark lowered his voice even more as they approached the Accounts Payable booth. 

A flat look was Natasha's only answer.

"Hey! Superdom! How's it goin'?" Jim was manning A.P. today, a welcome face if a nervous one. They weren't friends, but they got along well enough. 

"Oh, hey, Jimmy. Not too bad." Clark returned his greeting with a slight, flustered smile and ducked his head self-consciously. Under Natasha's amused glance, he did his best to ignore the nickname.

 _Superdom_ . God, it sounded so _vain_ ; there was no way Clark would ever refer to himself that way. He moderated his expression into pleasant neutrality — Jim didn't mean any harm by it, no matter how embarrassing the sting of pride might be to hear to his own face what floated around the rumor mill. Jimmy had handled more than a few photoshoots for Clark on the side — in addition to skills at accounting, he had a mean eye for the perfect shot.

But Clark wasn't much of a super anything, and it wasn't fair to believe himself superior or act as though he was. He was just doing his job, that he very much enjoyed. Trying to help people connect to themselves, be happier, be settled in their skins a little more than they were when they came to him.

He cleared his throat and raised a mildly reproving eyebrow at Jim. "Jim, I sure wish you'd stop calling me that. The ‘s’ stands for Service, not Super. How's it going with you?"

"Busy day, Supes." Jim nodded to the confusion down the hall, ignoring Clark's complaint as he'd done the last thirty or so times Clark had made it. "Agent Romanoff."

"Hey." Natasha eyed Jim, then dismissed him, turning back to Clark. "Anyway, I already have six notifications that Invitations were sent out on my behalf."

Clark handed over his written time log and pressed his right hand flat against the ECG's scanner outside the booth. He held his Heartbeat, a 16 mm black glass cube, at the ECG and watched the dot to dot animation scroll as the funds owed him since his last pick up were transferred. "Nuts. You taking all of them?"

Despite the news that would nearly double her immediate workload, Natasha was collected, as usual. "One already requested a Meet with me. His Agency Records while in her care are... Not pleasant."

He frowned. "You don't normally do rehabilitation."

"Exactly. They must be swamped. Or really specific about wanting a redheaded Domme."

With a grateful smile to Olson, he moved aside and leaned against the wall, eyes on the bustle in the hallway as Natasha stepped up to get her own payout.

Clark looked at the sea of boxes and saw too many files for only one Dom, given that Mistress Ivy had only been with the Agency for a couple of years. "Either she kept excessive notes, or she took all comers. Doesn't that seem too much for her time here?"  
  
"Her files are thorough, but not so much to account for all that." Natasha nodded toward the glass-walled conference room. "There are so many Invitations going out that I really don't think she had any screening process. Also, her plant gimmick seems to have been more than a theme or even a kink. I'm just warning you; if I got six of the least damaged clients, you and Captain Edge should get hazard pay for the next few months."

Now there was a thought — _Steve_. His reaction was gonna be something, alright.

Clark's lips tried to twitch into a smile, but when he looked down at his petite colleague he noticed she was dead serious and his amusement drained away.  
  
Natasha's face was expressionless. "Don't give me that look. Ivy ignored Assessment Flags or outright exploited them."  
  
"Exploited..." He frowned deeply and considered the chilling implications. Flags in Client Records mostly consisted of warnings about signs of mental illness that needed careful handling. Almost every Record had a minor Flag or two, but if Ivy had been deliberately aggravating them that was a serious legal liability for the Agency. _Now_ , Providers could not very well turn all these damaged people away... And the problems might have escalated to the point where they presented a danger to Providers. "Jesus."

She shrugged. "She had a surprisingly solid clientele list. Regulars, mostly." Her voice lowered. "Be careful — some things you can't bury."

Which was when his phone pinged lightly against his leg. Once, twice... Shit, five times? He didn't have room in his _schedule_ , let alone his regular roster, for five new clients.

"Sounds like my number's up. I'll catch you 'round. Wish me luck."

She didn't smile. "Luck."

As he left, Clark felt Natasha's knowing gaze follow him out as the pings continued in his pocket. He went down to the Exchange, as usual. Normally, Clark liked to linger a while in the Agency's in-house bar and café, but after Natasha's comments he decided to get his coffee to go.

It was worse than that though, as he found once he'd grabbed a coffee and a seat to relax for a moment and check his email.

Twelve Invitations had been sent out on his behalf, which was three quarters of his Agency-marketed obligatory total for the year. He had to Meet them if they requested it, but he didn't have to take them — not all of them, not one of them.

Whoever he passed on, would be matched with a different Dom. But Clark would still be liable for another person he hadn't scoped being pushed at him until he met his quota of new Contracts with unique Clients.  
  
Repressing a sigh of frustration, he finished off his coffee, unable to savour and enjoy it, and made his way back to the fifth floor — best to take what he needed with him immediately, before things got 'misplaced'. He slipped into the long Archives room and caught the attention of Perry White, the Chief Archivist.

"Hey, Chief."  
  
"Don't call me that." A well-worn complaint, faint with use and repeated distractedly while he cleared ECG security to look through his computer. Perry's distinguished features were a study in irritation, his mouth creased into a deeply preoccupied grimace, dark skin damp with what looked to be stress sweat. "Fifteen emergency Client reassignments, Elite copies, coming up." 

As Perry wandered off frowning ferociously, Clark checked his phone again; three more notifications of Invitation. As an Elite ranked Provider, Clark got not only their profiles but a complete copy of their Records... And Clark would be far from the only Elite being tapped to clean up this mess with Ivy. This certainly explained the hustle throughout the department and Perry's extra-sour mood.

When he looked up, Perry was dragging a small cart with two file boxes on it behind him and had a heavy satchel over his shoulder as well. He waved negligently at the sign-out ECG and Clark dutifully waited for each file to be scanned before formally accepting custody.

The Chief handed the last of them over to Clark with a harassed huff.

"Thank you, Perry." Clark glanced down at his haul and regretfully said goodbye to downtime for the foreseeable future. "Could you ring down to Transportation while I wrangle these? I'll need to sign out an Agency car to take these with me."

Clark was sliding back into the freight elevator, satchel weighted with thick folders and arms full of boxes, as another wave of lawyers came flooding out of the main elevator and into the hall. With a glance back, Clark let the heavy doors thud shut behind him and went down to the parking level and on to the Transportation Office.

"Take number thirty-six — just had an overhaul on the transmission. Turn in your gas slips and for the love of God, go easy on the interior."

That... Just seemed unsanitary use of shared property. He should have driven in today, after all.

Bruce read the letter, face impassive. Then he read it again, because it made no sense.

 _We regret to inform you that_ _Ivy_ _is_ _no_ _longer available for_ _Services_ _. We invite you to partake of other offers available at your earliest convenience._

He dropped the napkin on the table and abandoned his mostly uneaten brunch. The creamy thick paper of the missive flapped about as he rushed into the study, crumpled as he wrestled impatiently with the clock, was nearly forgotten by the time he'd hit the Mainframe level.

His Mistress was no longer available. Had she left him? Was he that disappointing a sub? _But there was so much still left to do!_

She had assured him, Subject 1048, that he would be wanted for further testing of _Urtica dioica_ -R4b — Mistress' nettle kisses. 

She had _promised_ that he would be punished as he deserved. The last salicylic acid and 5-hydroxytryptamine concentrate test had only reduced him to tears during the four days following their appointment; Mistress Ivy was sure she could achieve an entire week.

Bruce hesitated over the searches he'd already initiated, screens flickering frantically around him with results as he tried to separate the urge to _do_ something from what motivated it. Was the Darkness causing this desperation to trick him into breaking Mistress' orders? Or was urgency warranted by the actual circumstances? But... The Darkness was kept at bay by those orders; it was imperative they not be broken. 

It might have been another ingenious punishment. Some of Mistress' favorite activities involved Bruce not knowing he was in trouble to begin with. He filed away the results without analyzing them... Just in case they would turn out to be necessary after all. It could wait. For now, he had his orders. 

He waited, growing increasingly distressed each day he was not allowed reprieve from his guilt. 


	2. Chapter 2

Having instant access to a wealth of data wasn't always a good thing.

Clark hadn't realized that, though, even after he'd lugged the heavy boxes home and into his office. His sanctum, his Vault — his well-secured home office, amid his meticulously arranged current (and private) client files, his screens of live local-network video feeds showing each room in his apartment, and his jumble of recording equipment.

He locked the Vault back up.

Having as much data as possible about any endeavour was good, he thought. He prided himself in excellence, long before he'd achieved Elite rank, and wanted to have the best understanding possible of his prospective clients even if they came in such a flash flood.

Traditionally, an Invitation to Meet was issued through the Agency by a Dominant Provider or Client. If a submissive issued it, the name changed to Request to Meet. Their wording was extremely inoffensive, a form letter, and only referenced the person instigating it and the target by Agency ID handle. They were delivered by Agency Courier and treated much like certified mail.

Once they were delivered and signed for, nothing happened until the receiving party responded to the Agency accepting the invitation. True, Providers who had not met their yearly Quota of new Clients were obliged to accept every invitation, but not all Clients would accept. Then, the Agency issued a Notification of Interest — by Courier for Clients, and by AComm (the in-house high-security email and instant communication app for phones and computers) to Providers.

Clark ambled through the apartment clearing each room in the lower floor, then the higher one. 

During an emergency situation, such as trying to avoid possible lawsuits from Ivy's victims, the Agency took the initiative to issue such correspondence on behalf of Providers. When the targeted Clients responded, Providers would at that point receive a Notification of Interest.

Such notifications were by necessity very generic, lacking in any content other than what was contained in the header. Also sent to Providers' work emails, which according to the Hospitality Dept, used 'randomly' generated hash algorithm numbers instead of usernames.

Clark wasn't a Technician, but he understood it meant military-grade encryption. The servers were Agency controlled, had never been cracked in as far back as anyone could recall. Quite possibly, there had never been a hard breach of Agency data. The Agency also ran their own app for AComm, to make sure other companies in the marketplace (what few there were) didn't try to farm information.

With such high security available, extensive records could be kept about the most intimate of details; it was actually expected for Providers. Clark had an abundance of information about his suddenly plentiful prospects.

The apartment was empty so he moved on to walking the perimeter of the terrace; the weather had held nicely and it was a relief to see no more unfortunate birds had tried to perch on the electrified iron railings. The sub-audible bird-repelling broadcast must be working.

As far as Clark figured, that first flood of Invitations to Meet on his AComm would only immediately attract Ivy's most desperate and least loyal clients. He was almost surprised fifteen of them merited as much paperwork as he'd lugged home. Wouldn't clients with these many records be long-term clients, and therefore more loyal? He really hoped Natasha had been wrong and the files were padded with a lot of unimportant details. Starting with the thinnest files was as good a strategy as any, he supposed.

Clark had started receiving pings just this morning, so the Ivy situation must have been handled very recently. Maybe overnight... Such potential scandals were often dealt with while most possible witnesses slept, true. But mobilizing what looked like most of the legal department and unleashing this amount of overload on staff and infrastructure was extreme.

If the situation was really that dire, he wouldn't have a moment to himself for weeks. Clark sighed, closing his patrol with relief all was well and resignation of the workload in days to come. He returned to the Vault to scan recorded security footage.

It was fairly easy to keep up with the many screens, since nothing should be moving in almost all of them. He could spare some focus for brainstorming how to handle scheduling.

Logistics would be a nightmare. If Ivy really had no screening process, it followed that she had too many clients to keep them loyal. Therefore, Clark should brace himself for a tsunami but it would slow to a trickle soon enough. But if Ivy had inspired so much repeat business, maybe there would be a lot of sampling and they might end up shuffling clients around for months...

He'd find out which way it would go soon enough. Clients would be getting Couriered messages today and for the next few days, then they would have to make time to go through the Invitations on-site — when a single person received too much interest, the Agency preferred to make such a list dynamic by keeping it available only electronically. It'd cut down on work for Couriers as well, instead of having multiple pieces of mail travelling back and forth.

The client-entrance to the garage was going to be a revolving door for weeks. After they chose specific Doms from their options —no financing concerns restricting them by Tier; several sessions would be fully covered according to the sealed, in-house arbitration agreements— _that_ is when Clark would find out the true extent of his workload.

Done with his homecoming routine, the very first thing he did upon breaking the seal on the boxes was check each file against the manifest log Perry had helpfully stuffed into the top file fold in the satchel.

Once he had that settled he kicked his shoes off, turned some music on and finally— _finally_ — relaxed into an armchair (on which he'd spent just enough that he felt justified in feeling ridiculously pampered by it), he started organizing his research.

He ordered the files according to thickness and made sure that each file had the correct number of sections; ignoring, for now, any paperwork about financial restrictions for each client. There were a surprising number of discs in the video section; most Providers were not as fond of recordings as Clark.

Pulling a pad of notepaper close and pen in hand, he started in on the most slender folder of the lot. The Agency Assessment records at intake and such were listed first. He made a few notes about them — he would do a more thorough read of the files of clients that actually sent him Notice of Interest. Since the file was so thin, and presumably new, it was not too surprising to see a sparse Contract section. There was only one Provisional Contract, though, and the sudden jump to a Persistent Contract was... unexpected. Both with Ivy.

The disquiet began with the second page of the Provider notes, a sensation that made the back of his bent neck feel far too bare.

Partway down the page began the notes from the second session, right after the first, with barely any visual markers to signify a new section:

> **May 9, 2013**
> 
> Zingiber officinale-18E, Session 10
> 
> Subject 816 [#5596462], Session 2
> 
> 18:00 Sample application failure. Subject violently verbal. Subject noncompliant with restraint training. Pruning. Sample Zingiber officinale, specimen E18, applied to correct behavior. Tingling to see how this turns out.
> 
> 18:55 Success! Additional restraints provided as requested by subject. 297 grams applied before scrotal fissure. Specimen removed for cooldown monitoring and cleanup.
> 
> 19:20 Specimen sample produces positive vocal response. Vocalization occured from 18:05 to 19:10 (40 dB to 88 dB). Involuntary limbic reaction test inconclusive.

> At first glance, Ivy's client notes were meticulous and disciplined to the point of appearing like some sort of mission logs. Each page was filled with densely clustered information. Dates, client numbers, Agency codes, and timestamps marched orderly and dependable down the page.

On closer examination, though, Ivy's files were a masterpiece of distraction. The consistent formatting, justified margins, paragraphs all of about the same length, the cramped font chosen, excessive use of scientific jargon... It came across as an overload of monotone information.

Suspicious about the deviation from norm in the Contracts paperwork, and knowing she had been exiled _for a reason_ , Clark side-eyed the file. Would this commitment to a layout naturally occur from a mental disorder, perhaps? Or could it be deliberately designed to ward off deeper inspection? Of course, now Clark had to look again.

After a few pages he started opening other folders on his desk, abandoned taking notes, and just started studying the patterns.

All the records he had opened were liberally studded with botanical and organic chemistry terms; some read more like lab reports than an above-board Agency session. By itself, yes, it was eccentric. One might feel the need to suggest the Provider should take a few days off to decompress instead of steeping themselves in medical kink so thoroughly. But if having a medical kink were enough to get someone booted, half the damn Rankings would be out of jobs.

Adding in how each session was labelled as a session for _the plants_ used in the Scene? That metaphorical suggestion started leaning toward a few weeks off at a psychotherapy retreat. A subjective reaction; inconclusive. Clark kept looking.

It was normal for initial Meetings and the first Transient Contract sessions to only be documented by client number, but Ivy's clients _never_ seemed to make the transition to actual names. Some Providers nicknamed every client, those who were into humiliation might end up with nicknames nobody would want to speak in public but they still had them, and in the notes they would refer to clients by those nicknames while in their dynamic personas. Some providers were either lazy or respectful enough to simply use the client's Agency ID handle.

Clark focused on the newest sections of the thicker files and eventually realized that she _had_ nicknamed them... Depersonalization was a kink, of course, but for every single client to be a 'Subject' differentiated only by a number? She had far too many clients for her screening process to be that specific about their kinks matching hers.

Circumstantial, but it was enough to make his skin crawl nonetheless.

That was just the general commonalities. When he settled down to read specific entries from separate files, keeping himself alert and not lulled into the machine-like rhythm of the presentation, he found much more to be horrified by.

> **September 23, 2012**
> 
> Urtica dioica-R3c, Session 17
> 
> Subject 702 [#8171095], Session 61
> 
> 20:53 Subject noncompliant, turgidity extremely low. Administered 3cc 5-hydroxytryptamine to correct behavior. I should have known a penis would always be disappointing.
> 
> 21:04 Subject compliant. Commencing insertion of 8mm sound.
> 
> 21:25 Sounding, urethral stretching, and sample insertion successful. Vocal response (94 dB) upon compression confirms that trichomes inserted at correct angle. It's like music.
> 
> 21:40 Urethral inflammation peaked. Subject noncompliant. Application of acetic acid to Subject specimen batch 6 inconclusive. Ammonium carbonate applied to correct Subject behavior.
> 
> 22:03 Subsidence of urethral inflammation sufficient to allow sample extraction. Improvements not yet statistically significant. Recommend combining specimens R3c and R3m for higher histamine concentrations.

And that was just how she'd started. She'd inserted and rubbed out batches of nettles, explicitly noting inflammation rate and decibels of screams as measured by her equipment, then she'd capped the session by 'high-impact stimulation' which according to her notes only took seven minutes to achieve a flaccid state.

Where was the sexual or dynamic component in this? Now that Clark was more familiar with decoding the cramped blocks of text it, was the diary of a sadist with laboratory training and avoiding FDA oversight by using homemade plant-derived chemicals.

Another session mentioned the same chemical, and then a series of timed tests and measurements. Clark researched it and found it was likely an herbally-derived way to force an erection. She had kept track of turgidity as if she _didn't know_ how long the effects of the dosages would last.

She had been literally running human trials with experimental substances obtained outside of regulated supply channels, risking permanent injury and disfigurement for clients who (if the decibels recorded and frequent lack of natural erections were accurately reported) had no sexual interest in participating.

Unethical. Inhumane. Unforgivable.

Clark slammed the folders shut and stormed out, intent on a grueling gym workout so he could sweat out the helpless rage of knowing this had happened in real life, to real victims, for two years — and nobody had helped!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Acetic acid_ \- White vinegar.
> 
>  _Ammonium carbonate_ \- Smelling salts, used to bring people back to sudden consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A supporting character from Stargate Atlantis is portrayed in a very unflattering light in this scene. If you'd like to find out who it is beforehand, please check the notes at end of scene.

A week ago, before the madness of cleaning up after Ivy struck, Clark had been spending an idle morning at the Reading Room, just off Archives. It was part of his usual routine to seek out new clients to meet his Quota by perusing the client profiles in The Daily; a database of clients available for contract updated by the Chief Archivist. These people did not currently have Active Contracts and wished to be pursued.

Clark preferred the control of sending out Invitations rather than being obliged to Meet ill-suited matches when they found his Profile from the Browsing Room. He tried to meet his yearly Quota as early as possible so he could put a Hold on any new Invites and withdraw his Profile from circulation.

He'd found an interesting offer that day — not one of Ivy's former clients. This client was relatively new to the Agency; she'd only cleared her background check and financial verification twenty days ago. What first intrigued Clark was her age. Twenty-six was very young for a Client who could afford Agency services.

At so young an age, she was likely only beginning to seriously explore her dynamic. With the right Provider, she could be starting a rewarding journey that would help her understand herself and her needs. This would enable her to be more confident at an earlier age than the average Client, who usually sought out the Agency in their late thirties.

On the other hand, she could also put herself on a path filled with confusion and a lifetime of trying to comply with a stereotype that simply did not fit her personality. Was she actually submissive, or did she just expect that every young female had to be?

Level 1 Profiles did not include photographs, to avoid too many people being privy to the identities of the often famous Clients. Clark, as an Elite Provider, could have pulled her Level 2 but there was enough information here to work with and so little verified Agency history that he felt confident in making a decision this way.

A lot could be inferred from the Physical Assessment alone. She was of average height, with measurements hinting at alluring proportions, no birthmarks, only two small childhood scars noted, no skin or hair ailments that could mar her aesthetic appeal, on paper. Pale skin, medium length blonde hair, and blue eyes.

These things combined with her age would draw a fair bit of attention from Providers, and the lower ranks at the Agency were not criminally unethical but...

Like any group of humans, Providers were a mixed bag and not breaking the law still left a lot of grey areas. If Clark were interested in women sexually, he imagined he'd find her quite attractive. He wouldn't have chosen her for her looks, not entirely, though he did appreciate having someone aesthetically pleasing to work with as much as anyone else.

Her medical chart revealed a clean bill of health, except for a persistent case of vertigo — unfortunate and most likely not compatible with any kind of suspension play.

 _There's a whole world of floor work to_ _master_ _._ It didn't have to be a deal-breaker.

Three Invitations had been extended to her. She had Requested to Meet with all of the Doms; two Novice ranked and one Apprentice. All three Meetings had resulted in Transient Contracts — no further contact. The Provider reports all included glowing physical attractiveness appraisals and one lukewarm and vague 'intensely motivated' additional comment. No Flags or Black Marks.

Clark had been troubled by this. The past twenty days included psychological, physical, and medical Assessments. Receiving the Invitations by Courier and then coming down to the Agency to deliver Requests to Meet and then arranging the actual Meets took time, then the actual Playtime (or Scene-ing, as Clark preferred to think of it professionally) and clearing Medical after each Contract to post her Profile again...

It read as a very desperate young woman, with more money than sense. Clearing post-Contract Medical so quickly showed she'd not been Scening very hard at all despite being 'motivated', probably had not gotten to explore true power exchange, and likely was being used for simple sex or as an easy way to earn money or fill Quotas.

 _A lot of_ _grey_ _areas, indeed._

He'd chosen to extend an Invitation because she was young and her looks put her in a dangerous position. He'd also enjoyed the bluntness of her comments in the Services of Interest section — she had not been crass but definitely seemed to know what Services she was interested in and exactly what she liked about them. 

Additionally, several of her declared interests meshed well with his own areas of expertise: ropework safety and flexibility _development_ , posture and protocol service _training_ , with a special interest in costumed role-play. Her Services Required included total domination but the 'intercourse' checkbox remained empty— no explanation or reason given.

It was an opportunity to teach, to correct any harmful habits early on, and to watch a Client grow in confidence and ability. Such opportunities were fleeting. Having such a lasting effect on a person's life was an honor and a life gift.

In his six years working and learning with the Agency, Clark had seen too many eager new Clients —those identifying as Dominants, as submissives, and those who explored the strata in between— arrive insatiably seeking knowledge of technique and artistry. Completion. He'd seen them grow into proficiency. Accumulate the bumps and bruises of Contracts gone wrong. Then lash out at those hurts and devolve, becoming narcissistic, pretentious, and cliquishly malevolent. Using what they'd learned against others who they saw as enemies or prey.

They became the hit-and-run specialists of the Agency. Created a bad reputation for anyone even peripherally attached to the community, abused the power exchange and turned it into just another way to manipulate others, damaged those just discovering the world of dynamic relationships and left a trail of broken hearts, bodies, and minds.

_Just like Ivy._

They refused to be a part of the community, instead acting like a slow toxin to both individuals and the whole. And when they left or were eventually chased out, in one way or another, these people always managed to make the world just a little bit harder for everyone. Lawsuits or publicly denouncing power-exchange and dynamic lifestyles because of their own twisted understanding of what these things meant...

This was the true danger of the Rankless; freelancers in the BDSM world, unregulated, often without a shred of evidence to back up their grandiose claims. The damage they could cause was long-lasting and even incalculable.

Clark hated to see that — the perversion of potential. The atrophy of inspiration and poisoning of connection. He knew intimately from experience how disastrous things could become if someone was introduced to this lifestyle by the wrong kind of person.

So even though the demands on his time had grown exponentially in the last week, he was determined to give this Meet his full and sincere attention. If he could offer her a Persistent Contract, eventually, he could spare her becoming one more ill-used submissive. Under his tutelage she might flourish and fulfill the potential of her youth and looks. Even as a Switch or a Domme, he could mentor her.

That had been the dream.

He had arrived at the Exchange exactly on time and been pleased to find her waiting at the private room he'd reserved. Soon after, he'd begun a mental tally of _Behaviour That Must Be Corrected_.

She was wearing a play collar. A flimsy strip of pink leather dotted with rhinestones, a buckle in the back, and a shiny decorative lock hanging from a D-ring in front — about the only thing the collar or ring would be good for, certainly not bondage. He'd have to teach her the symbolism of a collar, of a lock, and the modesty of wearing such discreetly.

She greeted him effusively, addressing him immediately as 'Master', a wince-inducing lapse of etiquette and display of over-familiarity. She was young enough to be entirely new to the lifestyle, and as her collar showed she did not understand its nuances, so he smiled and introduced himself and added another item to the list.

She introduced herself as Doctor Jennifer Keller, M.D. Graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Madison at twenty-four. First bachelor's degree at eighteen. Obviously proud of her academic achievements. Such intellectual prowess seemed at odds with her lack of judgement and even desperation in accepting every Meet and Contract at a breakneck pace. Perhaps she misunderstood what being a submissive meant in terms of her ability to deny consent; he added it to the top of the list.

Jennifer eagerly ceded all control throughout the ordering of drinks and appetizers, disturbingly announcing she had no allergies therefore anything he chose would be fine. When prompted for preferences she reiterated it was entirely his choice, some hints at innuendo woven through. For the purpose of getting started with the actual interview, Clark finally ordered for them both. She seemed displeased but did not speak up. Clark suppressed a sigh and added another item to the list — it was a common misconception among those new to power exchange that a submissive was not allowed to have _any_ control at all. Those with true slave dynamics certainly wanted that from a Dominant, but such a person would have been sincerely thrilled with what Clark had chosen simply because a Dominant had chosen for them. This was clearly not the case, here.

The interview portion of the Meet was... Very one-sided. He asked a single question and in so doing unleashed a torrent of verbiage. Jennifer didn't seem to be able to stop talking about herself, weaving from topic to topic in a bewildering and sometimes nonsensical manner.

She had heard about the Agency from her friend, who said it was _the_ place to play. They'd met during childhood in Wisconsin. Jennifer didn't have a lot of friends because her academic schedule had always been so demanding. Her friend was in New York to pursue a modeling career and was not being very successful but her mother was an avid follower of fashion so her parents kept paying her expenses. Did Master know Jennifer had been offered modeling opportunities? She didn't want the wrong kind of public image to interfere with her career, though. She had recently accepted a position in Metropolis General Hospital, and was thrilled to be closer to her friend but was still lonely. Did Master know Jennifer was a great cook? Well, mostly family recipes, but her father always said they tasted just like mom's. She didn't have a lot of time to play, but she'd always liked men with their own lives to lead, so she expected that would work out. Oh, Master's career was not a problem for her — she wasn't the clingy sort.

Through it all Jennifer seemed to substitute innuendo in the place of humour, and appeared to expect this to be charming. Her incessant, self-centered chatter was perhaps meant to be taken for witty repartee.

It had become increasingly clear that she was starved for social contact, her social skills were abysmal, and if she was dynamic at all she was ill-suited to a submissive role. She was actually looking for a strong male to fulfill her traditional —and deeply familiar, deeply _Midwest_ — expectations of what the ideal long-term romantic partner should be and was willing to trade her sexuality for it as such expectations dictated, but clearly expected to walk all over any man who fell for her bait.

Exasperated by the waste of his time, Clark abruptly changed his list to _Behaviour That Must Be Denounced_.

"I noticed you indicated that you were not interested in intercourse. Tell me why," he interrupted.

She blinked at him, then smiled in a false, obviously forced manner. "It doesn't say I won't, either."

And there it was, the spark of disquiet growing into a defensive flame in his chest. _Red Flag_. Clark pretended to consider this, turned his head to look out the large window to give himself enough time to rein in his anger at her equivocation in avoiding answering the actual question.

He wasn't in the least interested in having sex with her, and her easy dismissal of what had clearly been labelled a hard limit was telling. _Willing to exploit herself_. Not just willing, no. Clearly situationally manipulative.

His voice sharpened. "Why did you accept my Invitation?" Clark watched a bead of condensation roll down the side of his water glass before she produced an answer.

"I only have three weeks of light scheduling at the hospital."

"What kind of posture and protocol service are you able to offer at present?"

"I... Don't actually know what that means. My friend Vala, the model, told me I could put that in because I went to finishing school."

The ache in his stomach solidified. "What sorts of ropework specialties have you researched?"

Her smile had started fading at that point, perhaps realizing her bluff had been called. "All the photos online are about tying up and most of them include rope, so that seemed like a good interest to have. Nobody would want a submissive that didn't like ropes, right?"

Taking a sharp breath, he sat back in his chair, eyes on Jennifer. His voice was smooth, but noticeably cooler when he continued. "And flexibility training?"

"I do yoga every day! My boyfriend in university said I was amazing, Master," she declared triumphantly, finally believing she was on solid ground. Her smile was rather smug, as if playing the Agency system were something to be proud of.

 _Deceitful_. The frown felt frozen on his face. _Or willfully ignorant_. Either way, not good signs.

"Please do not address me as 'Master', Dr. Keller. It is inappropriate outside of a Contract."

Her young, pleasant face turned sour. "I do have a contract! I signed a lot of paperwork with the Agency, you know?"

 _Stay calm, Clark_. An inability to take correction was problematic at best, a mere sample of everything wrong with her understanding of BDSM and The Agency at worst.

"Unless we both agree to Scene together, the two of us specifically are not in a Contract." Not wanting to get bogged down in technicalities, Clark kept talking without pause. "Furthermore, you are already wearing a collar which tells me you _have_ a regular play partner, and it has a lock which symbolizes you are quite serious about each other."

"What? No! Not at all. I'm very single," she reassured.

"You wouldn't wear a gold band and diamond solitaire on your wedding finger and expect men in the world at large to think you're available. Wearing a collar and lock is the same as a wedding set in the BDSM community."

"But that's silly! It's not like it's a legal thing. It's not even real jewelry!"

_This is not her fault. It's just ignorance._

"Correct. It looks like a _pretend_ wedding set. The image you are projecting, Dr. Keller, is of someone terrified of being unwanted. While not legally binding, collars are taken very seriously in our community."

"I'm not terrified. I'm... I'm wanted." Finally, she showed actual emotion rather than a veneer, but Clark had never wanted to break her like this. He could not see any other way to snap her out of her fantasy perception of the world long enough to get some actual information across.

"Doctor Keller," he said after an awkward pause. "This is not a dating service. You are aware that our Services include introductory, training and skill management seminars?"

"I don't have _time_ for all that!" She wiped at her eyes ineffectively with her napkin, though Clark could see no wetness touch the cloth.

Inexcusable. _Alright, then. We'll do this your way._

He kept his expression neutral. "Why did you accept four Invitations to Meet in two and a half weeks?"

"See! I'm wanted." The snap back into petulance was whiplash-inducing to witness.

_She doesn't know any better._

"Why did you accept three Transient Contracts in two weeks?"

"Like I _said_... I only have three weeks with that much spare time."

_God, so young and already so set on this path to self-destruction. So young..._

Clark wrestled for a moment with his desire to not see a young woman be used up, but his self-respect won. This entrenched sort of thinking required actual professional psychotherapy from a mainstream provider, probably for years. It was far out of Agency jurisdiction and trying by himself would only make him miserable. This young woman, this _prospective Client_ , didn't need him. She wanted his _status_ ; she was looking for an accessory, not his skillset.

He'd had his share, years' worth, of dealing with the responsibility of play — of _Scening_ with someone so cavalier. Of being _used_. No. _No_.

"No."

"I'm... Sorry?"

_That doesn't make it better. I can't do this. Not again._

"It's clear that I won't be able to offer you my Services." Clark tapped the 'service required' touchpad inset at the table corner to signal to the Exchange that this Meet was over. "Thank you for your time."

"Excuse me?!" Jennifer was incensed, all submissive posturing —poor as it had been— immediately discarded.

The waiter walked into the room to collect their empty dishes, betraying his discomfort at walking into an argument only by his stiffly neutral expression and excessively precise motions.

"I am also not at all certain that you're a submissive, Dr. Keller." He didn't stress her title, but only because demanding she behave professionally had no place inside Agency walls. If this was the way she behaved at all times, her lack of maturity was appalling.

Her average sort of bland beauty was entirely negated by the bright red flush of anger on her skin and the ugly distortion of her features as something fully honest overtook her — she was already a poisoned apple before ever Registering.

"Why not??" Her tone, as it had been for the entire Meet, was brash and demanding.

Clark regarded her stoically, professional armor fully deployed. "What is my name?"

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Not near as blameless as a deer, though clearly as thoughtless, but caught in the headlights of her own entitlement all the same.

The waiter walked out, carefully pretending there was nobody else in the room.

Clark nodded to himself and stood decisively. "You do not have the proper temperament to participate in any kind of healthy power exchange, Dr. Jennifer Keller MD, of Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin-Madison 2010 alumni, friend of Vala the aspiring model. I advise that you keep your Scenes in-house for your own safety. No fantasy, however attached to it you are—" He eyed that damned collar again. "Is worth your life. I hear psychotherapy is effective for delusions. Thank you for Meeting with me — it's been an experience. I wish you luck at Metropolis General and a pleasant rest of your working vacation."

He hoped she would take his advice, and seriously wished she would seek professional counseling, but he wouldn't waste any more breath on deaf ears.

"Wait! Are you _walking out on me?!_ I _paid_ for this! I was told you were **PROFESSIONALS!** "

He'd made the right decision, making this Interview private. And there came the tears, so on cue that Clark could have set his watch by them. He then saw clearly what he was dealing with, and it was a sure bet that if he were to change his mind —which he was absolutely _not_ going to do— those tears would dry up and disappear as if they'd never been. He didn't wait.

Because those tears were lies; manufactured expressions of hurt to cause guilt, manipulate. Not an admission of blame or a desperate plea for a chance at redemption. Those tears only made him angrier.

It was a shame. No— _She_ was a shame.

_Unwilling to learn. Vainglorious. Histrionic. Narcissistic. Orange Flags._

"We are professionals, Dr. Keller." Clark kept the door open, already in the process of leaving. "We are, however, not prostitutes. You paid for the guarantee of thirty minutes of my time, and a Meet is not for Scening. You had an hour of my full attention."

"But you can't just—"

"If you fuck everyone you Meet," he said finally, tiredly. "They won't have any reason to offer you a Contract you actually want. You'll become what is known as 'a melon'. Every shopper gives it a squeeze early on, but after a while it's too bruised for anyone to take home."

This was a universal truth; hard to believe he had to spell it out for her. Nobody values things that take no effort to obtain, nobody wants to treasure people that do not respect themselves. This was as true in the Agency as it was in any other adult community, even mainstream hetero-normative ones.

He walked away with controlled, angry strides.

Before the doors to the private room swung shut he heard her growl, stomp, and something that might have been a threat of formal complaints slipped out the door after him. Then the doors closed under their own heavy weight.

Soundproofing was a beautiful thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this scene Jennifer Keller shows that Agency Clients can be average people with average flaws; not everyone has traumatic pasts or bottomless inheritances like Bruce. While the previous scene mentioned not all Agency Providers are sterling examples of humanity, this scene aims to balance that out by showing how Clients are also a mixed bag.


	4. Chapter 4

"Brucie!  _ Bruuuuucie _ , come  _ on! _ " Giggling came from the other side of the bathroom door.   


He didn't want to be here, in this place. This hotel, this room. This position; hiding behind a fucking oak door, shined shoes on shining tiles, desperately yanking at his recalcitrant cock and pressing hard fingers into his bruises to force himself to stiffness. The Wayne Foundation relied on Wayne Enterprises, and both required the Wayne figurehead to do the rounds in society. But that put him out where women could find him, and as usual that ended up at a hotel.   


They'd wanted his company, for the usual reasons. Now, also for the usual reasons, they wanted sex. And as he had for the past two years when a woman —any woman— gave more than a passing sign of interest in him, Bruce had encouraged them further. As he'd been commanded— ordered to, by Mistress. His wants did not figure into this equation. He had to perform. He comforted himself with the thought that they would certainly have reason to be generous in their donations to the Foundation this year.

_ Whore, _ Mistress whispered in his ear even here, echoing from the marble under his feet, from the crystal above him, glinting in the reflections from every lustrous and over-pampered surface.   


"Brucie? Hey, handsome, you alright?"

_ No. _

"Oh, just fine!" Bruce called out, his voice a light, lazy drawl. "Bit too much wine, I'm afraid, darlings. So many  _ buttons!"  _ He forced an indifferent laugh. "HA-hah! Where's the valet when you need him, right? Just a moment!"   


_ Unclean, pathetic; _ Bruce could practically hear Mistress' voice mocking him for trying to please any woman by getting hard for her. It was  no use; he didn't want them — didn't even want them in his space, let alone on his stupid, disgusting cock. He shoved his worthless appendage back into his pants with a grimace, and buttoned up.   


The women wanted Bruce to desire them, but he would have been punished for insulting any woman by making the presence of his most repulsive parts known with an erection. Mistress hated to even see his— To even see it.  _ My worm. _ It was only allowed out to be punished. She had promised on more than one occasion that if she caught him "using that weapon" on any woman, she'd make him beg to have it cut off. Bruce certainly understood how such things could be used to hurt, to cause all sorts of terrible damage.   


But he'd just wanted... To be a playboy instead of a whore. To seem the conqueror instead of the conquered. Or maybe just a moment to remember what it was to feel desire. The relief of feeling like a normal m—   


No.

He didn't  _ deserve _ rest. Not rest, not relief, not an easy conscience. Within Bruce lurked the Darkness and it was dangerous to give in to these flights of fancy, to give that thing an inkling that it could break free of Mistress' control.   


Bruce sagged against the door. He could hear them out there in the suite. Two of them. Probably already down to their camisoles and stockings, possibly already touching his things, looking in overcoat pockets, doing something to his drink... Egging each other on in some misguided attempt to make their sojourn in the billionaire's bed last longer than a night. As if.   


Didn't they know Bruce was  _ disposable? _ They had certainly whispered in his ear as if they understood, as if being used for his cock was all he was good for.   


It was fine — he had two good hands and a mouth that worked just as it should. A tongue tired from too many hours spent spouting inanities, but a serviceable tongue all the same. And as Mistress had been kind enough to teach him those were the only parts of him that any self-respecting woman would want, anyway.   


With a tug to his tie to loosen it, Bruce glanced at the mirror then just as quickly away from it. There was nothing of importance to see there. He opened the door.   


They  _ were _ down to their camis, posed on the bed. One dangled flimsy panties off a foot already.   


"There you are," she laughed, perfectly ringleted hair bouncing. "We thought you'd fell in. Or fell asleep..." She dimpled at him.

Bruce dredged up his best mask. "Please, darlings, give me some credit. How could any man fall asleep with—" He gave them both a slow once-over. "All this waiting for him?"

It could be argued that Bruce has done more ethically questionable things for resources than put out for charitable donations...

Though at the moment, he couldn't recall.

Clark settled into yet another Exchange private room, for yet another Meet he'd been obliged to accept due to Ivy's rampage. He arranged his things about the table and tried to project a business-like  demeanor . Since he had not extended the Invitation himself, he didn't want to seem too open to this submissive and give him false hope.   


_ Interview # 4008. Emergency Assessment. _

He lifted pen from paper and smirked at the number. That was an awful lot of interviews during his employment here... Well over three thousand unique partners. Wow... It was either good for the male ego or horrible for anyone's self-esteem. Egos were terrible, backstabbing things anyway. Clark chose to dismiss both ideas as patriarchal, puritanical mainstream programming and settled in to wait impassively.   


Minutes later, a flurry of black leather and pale humanity barged into the room. The man stopped cold, looked down at his wristwatch, sighed in relief, and threw himself into the chair opposite Clark.   


"Hi." Curt, insouciant... At odds with his obvious desire to not disappoint with lateness. A front then, possibly a brat.   


"Why 'Spike'?"   


The man sitting across from Clark wasn't his usual type of Client, but he was an emergency client. He made Clark think of photography, of finely  chiseled ice, a negative exposure of a person. Pale skin, pale hair. Pale eyes. He smelled clean and looked hungry, so Clark carefully ignored the ostentatious chipped and painted nails, the false sneer that tried to hide his more overt body language, and the punk rock  aesthetic .

"I'm an artist. More imaginative than William, isn't it, Mr. S?"   


Clark sat in silence and waited; sometimes one learned most from the silences. The man might still be a brat but he did seem aware of protocol, not speaking unless spoken to. Answered direct questions honestly but didn't mislead with false respect, instead wording his answer with just a hint of insubordination — yet showed the proper respect of protocol again, by not being overly familiar with a strange Dom.   


Clark watched him fidget, watched thin fingers flick and run over the table's edges as the man shifted for what may be the hundredth time in the brief time since he'd taken a seat. Those pale fingertips were stained, lightly.

_ Brat? Aware of protocol. Smoker, high strung. Will need to manage nicotine breaks _ , Clark wrote down.

"You requested heavy impact play, with implements. What can you tell me about your past experiences with the same type of play?"

"These things are relevant, of course, sir... But don't you want to ask the big questions? I know what all this is about. The free sessions, the kick upstairs to Elite, and I'm... flattered. But I'll tell you what you want to know."   


Clark raised one eyebrow slightly. The rapid-fire evasion of the direct question but stalling with the intention of being fully honest was clever and, frankly, amusing — if he actually did answer the spirit of the question.   


Spike pursed his lips, then sighed and ran a hand through platinum blond locks, roughly pulling at them. "Mistress Ivy. She was a lark. Tied me up good and beat ten shades a hell outta me. You know, hung me from things, bled me, left me achin'.   


"Won't say I didn't enjoy it, but I didn't agree to any whatever the fuck she gave me —'scuse my language, sir— and I sure as hell didn't agree to any tentacle plants." He paused, pensive expression of his face. "Course, that could'a been the drugs."

Clark blinked. There were an awful lot of chemical names listed in Ivy's notes, but the ones he'd researched turned out to be herbally-derived topical irritants, inflammatories, and such... He was  no expert; a handful of them could have reinforced each other's more rare  side-effects such as hallucinations. "I'm sorry, did you say 'drugs'?"   


"Yeah," Spike said, in a desultory way, before he sat up a bit. "I mean, yes, sir. Dosed me, dunno with what. Saw things, heard things. Felt a hell of a lotta things."

"I see," Clark said slowly. So it might really have been those chemicals and not more traditional, identifiable drugs. "But you came back."

"Sure, I did. Man needs an outlet, right? Told her to her face not to do it again. She..." For the first time, Spike looked out of sorts. His gaze darted around the room before coming back to settle on Clark. He smiled, hard. "The stuff was strong, whatever it was."   


"You were dependent on her," Clark said, making his tone as neutral as he could.

"On  _ it _ , sir. On what it did, when she— " Spike's fingers drummed at the edge of the table. "Made it not matter, what she did. Made things murky-like. Easy. I been down that hole before, though, sir." His eyes burned briefly with defiance. "Wasn't gonna let anybody stick me back in.

"In any case, sir, here I am." Another jaunty grin that did nothing to hide his nervousness. "Been through Medical, clean bill of health. No more shakes. No, uh... seeking  behaviors and the like, less'n you count this. Won't be callin' 'round beggin' ta lick yer boots for candy." His leg jittered under the table, knee bouncing irregularly. "Unless that's the sort of thing you're into. No  judgment , sir. So, do I pass?"   


Clark reviewed his notes and made a few more. He'd need extensive lists of effects for the chemicals Ivy used, and cross-reference  side effects . He couldn't dismiss them as mild for being herbal — Ivy clearly did not choose the more natural sources for the sake of gentler responses, like most sane people did. He'd need to contact Medical; maybe they had even already started compiling such research. If not, they probably should.   


The submissive before him had certainly been open and honest. He'd not answered the actual question, but it did make sense that this was the best answer he had to give if both his memories and his experience of pain during impact play was skewed in recent months by psychoactive drugs. Clark could probably work with this submissive, even if he was a brat.   


He'd taken long enough to answer to show he took Spike's answers seriously, but he didn't want to sink into introspection so long that the submissive felt ignored — abandonment play was not listed as one of his interests. So Clark reluctantly set aside both his simmering outrage at the abuse f trust during a  power exchange , and his brainstorming, and focused again on the hot mess across the table. The hope in his eyes was as heartbreaking as his abysmal posture was irritating.   


"What Services can I offer you, Spike?"

"Might have some general ideas, yeah," Spike said, shifting restlessly. "Chain me to a cross, whip me till I bleed, tell me how pretty I am, while wearin' somethin' priestly-like, that'd be fine." He paused deliberately, smiled at Clark, then added a belated, "Sir."

His bravado was amusing, and Clark found himself charmed despite his usual dynamic preferences. "So you have very specific ideas, then. Hm."   


Clark made a note of that, and of the possibility of surprising Spike with a nun's habit instead. Should Clark play the role of a devil or an angel? He looked over his pad and felt his decision coalescing. The lack of artifice was immensely refreshing, and Clark was  _ already _ having fun. With a smile, he pushed his glasses up where they'd fallen down the bridge of his nose, and looked back up at his new Client.   


"I can do that for you. I'd like to offer you a Provisional Contract for the duration of your complimentary sessions. Meet me here tomorrow night—" He handed Spike his card finally, one that was  blank, save the Agency's symbol and his VOIP contact code . "At 10:15 exactly." He'd grant Spike L2 Profile access once he'd left the Interview. "And Spike... Please don't be late just to get a reaction out of me. I don't like wasting scene time."

The answering grin was wild and strangely joyful. "Sir, yes, sir. On time and with bells on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakes: tremors, a common sign of the syndrome of often painful physical and psychological symptoms that follows discontinuance of an addicting drug.


	5. Chapter 5

There'd been no word.

Not a breath of a word from her.

For weeks.

He had no bruises left, full range of motion, for the first time in over a year he could sit comfortably with his legs crossed... He had no physical reminder he was under another's control and was not allowed to run rampant through the Gotham night. The situation was untenable. His control was tenuous.

It was too dangerous to continue to wait. Others could get hurt.

Three whole weeks without contact was beyond the pale. It couldn't be a punishment, not for this long. Not without a word of taunting or telling him how desperately he _deserved_ to be abandoned like the trash he was.

Bruce gave in and visited the Agency. The garage entrance for clients had a series of gates that isolated anyone from being seen coming or going — a necessity when they didn't believe phone, email, or even regular mail to be secure enough to exchange any but the most plausibly deniable information. It was that degree of paranoia that made it feel like a reasonable risk to contract with them.

Ivy's silence wasn't a mind game or even a clerical error. The bland language of the notice he'd received was accurate, and also about as much as the Agent who agreed to meet with him would say. If the Agency said so, directly, then it was not a punishment. The Agency was very careful to separate itself from the Services or the Providers; they merely facilitated the private arrangements.

Mistress Ivy had left the Agency. When Bruce asked if perhaps she had left a way for clients to contact her, he knew he was grasping at straws. The Agency would not want their clients to follow Service Providers into their own private practices. He was expecting a simple denial, what he got was a look of deep pity and the one piece of new information he gained from the whole trip: Mistress Ivy had left the country entirely.

Left the country? Permanently? For what possible reason? The Agent would not say, and what little staff Bruce met along the way refused to engage in conversation with him at all. Very professional of them, but it didn't help Bruce.

The pity in their gazes did at least satisfy a small measure of his need for punishment — when Bruce Wayne, in full designer suit and Patek Philippe dangling visibly from a wrist, got treated like scum... He felt _seen_. Watched. The Bat would not spring out unnoticed, and if he hurt anyone, nobody here would hesitate to put him down like the rabid animal he was. With pity, yes, but a mercy kill was still a kill. Safety.

That night he finally gave in and slunk down to the Bat's lair. The least dangerous of his contraptions, the only one Bruce still sometimes dabbled in, was his only hope for answers. He sat at the Mainframe and tried to hack the Agency. For hours. 

_Dammit!_ Their real servers had to be air-gapped. There was nothing encrypted, nothing firewalled. Employees had only numbers and scrambled bio-lock data, bank accounts were nameless strings of numbers and nothing else. There were no photos he could use for facial recognition searches; their website never showed faces either.

If Mistress Ivy had really left the country, he had no way to track her. Perhaps her greenhouses?

Bruce raced up to change into nondescript street clothes, then chose a bland electric (quiet) car, and opened the garage...

Dawn greeted him. He'd intended to use the cover of night to rifle through the buildings for clues as to her real-world identity or maybe her garbage would have discarded notes with clues as to her destination. There had to be _something_.

He drove casually past the supposed farmhouse behind which sat row upon row of greenhouses. It'd look like any other high-tech farm in the area, except for the obvious bouncer types loitering around the porch.

Parking in a back driveway within walking distance, Bruce snuck up to the farmhouse to find out why they were there. Were they new clients of Mistress? Were they being punished, or perhaps rewarded?

He laid down out of sight behind some of the plentiful landscaping, avoiding the noise of gravel bedding by settling on the rough flagstones of the nearby path. It might have been more covert to perch high and use directional mics and noise scrubbers... But he had to avoid anything that could trigger the Bat to emerge; he hadn't climbed anything but sedate carpeted stairs for years. Close range surveillance had seemed like the logical choice.

As the sun rose in the sky, the flagstones beneath him leached his body heat and parts of his front felt numb. They'd been under his shadow since shortly before dawn and had never lost the night-time chill. His weight had also settled and molded to the stone surfaces and their rough corners dug into his flesh. Conversely, the heat of the sun baked his legs, backs, neck... It was shallow but the burn became intense over time. Bruce had to remain still, so he would not be found. He had to remain focused, so he could hear anything important.

The guard changed, and Bruce slowly realized he'd come as close as he could into Mistress' domain and put himself in a painful stress position with high cognitive demands... _Shit!_ He was already slipping. He had placed his needs above Mistress' orders; he was not allowed to give himself relief from the guilt through self-administered pain. He was fucking _compromised_ . Surveilling like this was not a logical choice, but an emotional and subconscious one.

His hands started to tremble, because _of course_ his body would betray him even as he could no longer rely on his mind.

"Ivy got out of hand," the tall one seemed to explain, dismissive.

Her name startled him back into coherency. He replayed the words and examined them like the precious news they might well be. Mistresses' subjects would never dare speak of her this way. Perhaps they were discussing gardening duties Mistress had given them?

"Out of hand is needing a few stitches," the hairy one disagreed. "This bitch went too far. It's going to get us sued before the year is out, mark my words."

Agency security staff, then. If the Agency owned this place, where else could Bruce look for her? If she had gone 'too far', had there been legal proceedings he could trace? Maybe a submissive had been killed... Mistress did favour experimental plants and anaphylaxis was a real possibility. No, Mistress had provided excellent care the two times he had succumbed; she even had that intubation kit handy! So not that. Besides, there must have been a waiver about it at some point.

"From all the way out in Africa, or wherever she got exiled to? How's she gonna sue us?"

Exiled? These weren't the Middle Ages — people were not exiled. But if Mistress really _had_ left the country and had gone overseas... One way or another she would not be here to help him anymore, no matter what she'd promised. Promises were broken every day, Bruce well knew.

"Not her — if she knows what is good for her she won't dare to show her face on this side of the ocean again. The people she abused though, if they're not too batty now, will probably want to sue."

Mistress... Wasn't coming back...

Bruce continued staring at them, at a loss for what to do now. The sunburned man switched feet and went back to leaning against the railing as he kept watch over the left side of the house, by the tractor barn. The tall one seemed to consider the hairy one's words for a while, then opened his mouth to ask something.

A heavy hand landed on Bruce's shoulder. "Got another one!"

He reacted, struck out — since when did he have line of sight to them? This was auditory surveillance only. When had this guy walked right up behind Bruce? He was losing it. _He was losing it!_

The Agency did not hire bodybuilders for security. This takedown spoke of military training, the serious kind. Bruce couldn't really hurt him — that was the Bat; the _Bat_ hurt people. Bruce dodged, grappled, feinted. Muscle memory he didn't know he still had was coming back, and the control he'd fought so hard for was slipping. _I have to get out of here!_ Frantic motion, pure trained reflex. Bruce gave ground and thought he might back away enough to jump onto a tree and leap over the fence. Greenery dragged at his feet. Shouts. Radio protocol, someone was on comms. Feint, turn, turn, dodge, turn. Ground combat, close quarters, no weapons, no lethal force, outnumbered... No lethal force. No lethal force. No— _Don't kill don't kill don't kill_. His back hit a wall. _Where the fuck did a wall come from??!_ He couldn't breathe... He braced his back on the wall and kicked them away. He _couldn't breathe!!!_ A blur, another guard caught him. Someone's wrist snapped in his hand—

His blood ran cold.

He froze.

All told, the fight didn't last long... The pain of the beating was such a relief, after almost a month without, that Bruce fell to his knees as manhandling demanded. Legs sunk in the thorny groundcover, he hung his head and wept silently for all the work undone. For the Darkness escaping. These were Agency men; they could be trusted to hurt him properly. And he deserved it. _He fucking deserved it_. He'd lost control. He'd lost it. He'd actually damaged a good guy for doing his job.

"Sorry, sorry, m'sorry, sorr—"

The bruising, resentful grip trying to tear into his shoulder was an anchor. A reprieve. These thorns though... He didn't recognize them... Were they moving, or— ? No, surely it was his vision that was— But the sting, the delicious stinging, fire moving through his veins and—

And the soil was becoming curiously warm beneath him...

As his vision faded to black, Bruce felt guilty they might get in trouble if he died on their watch. He hoped for their sake that waiver was still good. 

The indignity of waking to the crisp smell of antiseptic and the Agency's medical suite was not one Bruce intended to repeat.

Thankfully, he'd paid more than enough over the years —and their privacy protocols were stringent enough— that instead of waking wearing a paper sheet with his ass hanging out in an open infirmary... Bruce opened his eyes to fresh gauze and the sight of a butterfly clip being carefully applied to said gauze, scrubs cropped to accommodate his injuries, a private room, and a neat stack of new street clothing without rips or blood stains conveniently on a nearby stand.

He had no explanation worth giving for his actions; he didn't risk explaining himself or making excuses. In the interest of not further discomfiting him —and the absence of a registered, contracted Dominant— they had no recourse but to release him when he asserted that his injuries were minor.

Despite protestations about further possible chemical effects from the vegetable toxin he'd unwillingly been dosed with by Mistress Ivy's hedges, he felt fine. A slight headache, some muscle aches, but _fine_. There was absolutely no reason for more alarm, and definitely no reason to involve any authorities that might want to take a closer look at the injuries... For example, a hospital.

He refused to sign anything but the waiver excusing the staff on grounds from prosecution. Waved them off while glibly spouting a line about the holes in his ruined trousers and a catalog of tailored slacks he'd seen in passing.

Ostensibly, he was free to go.

Realistically, he was fully aware that this incident came with obligations. Such as the meeting he was now reluctantly a part of.

"There are _options_ , Mr Wayne, which the Agency is happy to offer to you free of charge or obligation. For the inconvenience," the Agent, who Bruce rapidly came to realize was something of a _caseworker_ , said. "If you are interested."

Options. Eyeing him as if he were so much paperwork across the woman's desk, speaking softly as if he were the type of person who broke at a harsh word.

Bruce adjusted his new jacket with deliberate composure and calmly crossed his legs. The bandages beneath tugged the fabric all out of alignment.

"What kind of options?" Of course he was interested. He was interested in anything that would keep the Darkness from clawing its way back up out of him. Anything that could contain the Bat and keep Bruce good. Anything that could make him clean, for even a brief moment.

Five sessions, was what was on offer. Five sessions, free of charge (not that he cared about cost or needed that concession) with the Service Provider of his choice (which he very much cared about) — 'option to renegotiate as per standard, pending second Party's approval'. Very professional words for an exorbitantly expensive pay-off. Bruce was still trying to figure out what he was being paid off _for_ when he realized it didn't matter.

"The Agency is here to support you, and we intend to do so."

What mattered was doing whatever it took to beat back the bloodlust, the rage. _His sickness_.

The Agent led him to a terminal in a private room, though Bruce wasn't stupid enough to think the very visible camera wasn't recording his every move. They provided him with five choices. Bruce hadn't updated his screening questionnaire since his first visit, and most of the Agency picks were unappealing for one reason or another.

 _Too kitschy. Too much psychological bullshit... Too_ _red-headed_.

It took less than five minutes to narrow the Agency's suggestions down to two Service Providers he might be able to use. Both experienced Dominants. Both men, despite what Bruce's Registration screening said about his sexuality.

 _Because scores mean nothing when you can manipulate results_.

The two sets of scores in his hands, though — they meant something. The Agency ranked its Providers in tiers, according to hours worked and skill levels reliably tested. They had their own standardized accomplishment hierarchy and a consistent means of judging both the talents and experience of their Providers. They calculated in sexual considerations as well, such as stamina and certain measurements, but it would be foolish to solicit the Agency for merely _sex_.

That would be like buying a Lotus just to drive down to the corner shop and back.

No, he was sure people came to the Agency for any number of reasons, but in the end, for Bruce it all came down to one reason. The only reason that mattered: The promise of someone who could do what Bruce didn't have the strength to — _control_ the Bat.

  
Their Dominants. 


	6. Chapter 6

Months like this one made him question his life choices. Clark sighed while aiming his eyeballs generally in the direction of the vertiginous view outside a Respite window.

Yes, the amount of secrecy, surveillance, and accountability meant he could be invisible to the outside world while still making sure his unexplained absence would be noticeable and cause enough anger among wealthy, powerful people that it would not go unchallenged. Being relatively safe from... Unpleasantness from Smallville following him around... It was priceless, really.

But.

The workload had been brutal. At first he'd cut down on self-care, thinking he could make up the deficit in a week or two. He would drive everywhere instead of taking walks, had necessities delivered to the concierge instead of wandering through farmers' markets, abandoned his fitness regime in favour of resting his body so he could avoid stress injuries caused by his tight Scening schedule. He had even taken sleeping pills once or twice when his schedule demanded he sleep but his body was still too worked up from the last Scene of the day — or the latest outrage induced by Ivy's files.

Clark wandered to some nearby seating and gave in to controlled collapse into the cushions.

Wading through Ivy's wreckage alone had not been an option after the first week. He'd started delegating some of the screening to other departments; first and foremost Medical. Early on, some ex-Ivy clients showed up to Meets with Clark while still moving gingerly, favouring sides or entire limbs, the occasional bandage peeking out. Other... _refugees_ , really, had shown signs of tremors, sweating, disorientation — most had not been as pro-active as Spike and gotten themselves clean before requesting a Meet.

Rubbing his eyes and yawning, he took a moment to not think. Then his watch caught in the cuff of his shirt and reminded him of the time. Clark really needed that paperwork to get done soon.

Now everyone was sent to have their Stage 2 Registration Assessment redone.

 _It's self-_ _defense_ _, really._

Two months ago he would only have done it for people that had been out of the Agency for many weeks, or if their last one had been so long ago that they could reasonably be expected to have grown into their dynamic or at least changed as people normally do over time.

Sadly, his effort to delegate had proven to not only save time but actually be very necessary. Lifestyle submissives in general did not like living without the safety net of a Dominant involved in their lives, and somehow Ivy had convinced all of her clients that they were that type of submissive. Well, if the Agency required re-assessment before offering Doms they would have revolted — but if a Dom they wanted ordered it then it was reassuring to follow orders, so it got done.

So a fair amount of his workload these days was really just directing administrative traffic, but doing it while role-playing his own dynamic... It was mind-bending.

Finally, a Courier came up from Archives to the highest levels of Respite and found Clark in the suite he had booked for some emergency shut-eye in between Meets. Clark accepted the envelope and waved his Heartbeat around as required then, once the door was locked again, flopped onto the bed. He was simply exhausted and his schedule was too tight to waste the opportunity to lay down. If things kept going this way he might end up using the suites at Respite for Scenes, just to cut down on travel time.

 _Ugh, it's going to wreck my personal records if I do that. Oooooh, it would save_ _clean-up_ _time, too. Would the extra time setting up cameras and such be worth it, though? Damn, I'm so tired I can't focus._

Reports first, then rest.

He tore open the envelope and looked through the summary... Almost every reassessment he'd scheduled for Ivy's ex-clients had gone poorly.

> [8171095] RA-2. Orange - Medical
> 
> [1115393] RA-2. Scheduled
> 
> [2605275] RA-2. Approved
> 
> [8965255] RA-2. Orange - Medical 
> 
> [5418585] RA-2. Red - Psych 
> 
> [7987460] RA-2. Orange - Medical 
> 
> [4298014] RA-2. Scheduled 
> 
> [6804229] RA-2. Orange - Medical 
> 
> [6405729] RA-2. Orange - Medical 
> 
> [7081427] RA-2. Orange - Medical 
> 
> [3752871] RA-2. Approved 
> 
> [1159836] RA-2. Closed records. No contact 
> 
> [7907696] RA-2. Closed records. Deceased 
> 
> [6369543] RA-2. Orange - Psych

Ivy's methods —and their effect on her former Clients— were extreme. And extremely disturbing. Would be actionable except for the necessary secrecy.

It would have seemed remarkable that _all_ of her clients were so extreme, except the probability of that happening, when all the evidence pointed to her lack of screening, was infinitesimal. Clients that had previously passed their assessments clear of flags were coming out of these assessments still healing from injuries over four weeks old, or with new chronic conditions. That was just the physical side; he would have to spend extra time reviewing Ivy's files for those with psych orange flags.

 _A red flag? Wow... I might keep in touch to make sure they stay in treatment. A_ _no_ _contact?! Holy... Well, I certainly dodged a bullet on that one._

In his years with the Agency, Clark had only seen a client labeled ‘no contact’ sixteen or so times. Normally issued only by an accumulation of Red Flags or Black Marks, it meant that the Client was no longer considered to be an asset to the Agency’s reputation. If Clark had to guess going by what he’d seen so far of Ivy’s ex-Clients, violence against Agency personnel was a possible and all too likely explanation. 

Clark tucked the letter away in his go-bag and locked it, threw his clothes off, threw himself in bed... Quickly, quickly, before he thought too long about whether that deceased client had been a physical complication from Ivy's shit or a suicide. Murder, either way.

He shuddered and decided to meditate until he fell asleep. A deliberately blank mind; that was the only way to be calm these days. 

Bruce climbed out of the limo and looked around the deserted cliff with a sigh. If this was the kind of location this Dom preferred, nature and daylight, it would be awkward but... The Bat would be entirely out of its element; it was worth considering.

He had chosen to meet the Dom identified only as 'Edge' first because of his military experience, noted in Service details. His Agency rank was impressive, which he hopefully earned with discipline and expectations of excellence learned during his time in military service. Perhaps he had learned such things in his private life, in which case it could only be hoped such mindset extended to his military training as well. Either way would be acceptable, as long as Bruce was not exposing a helpless civilian to the violence within himself.

Alfred offered him the heavily packed basket and then retreated a few steps. Bruce accidentally looked at his face instead of in the general vicinity of his shoulders as usual — a mistake. The bottomless sadness in Alfred's eyes and air of resignation about him were sharp reminders that Bruce had destroyed the man's life; his own need for revenge had led Bruce places where the boy he had been, the boy this man had cherished, had been utterly destroyed. Alfred had been entrusted the safety of that child, and Bruce had forced him to fail. Guilt coalesced at the back of his neck and Bruce bent his head, barely avoided going to his knees.

The desire to be punished clawed at him, a desperate need to atone, tears making his eyes feel hot and collecting unfallen on his lashes.

With rather less aplomb than was seemly, and rather more haste than was prudent, Bruce walked quickly to the top of the stairs at the edge of the cliff and descended with careless steps until he was hidden from Alfred's sight. There he stopped to collect himself — not every Dom liked a sub that showed up already broken to their first meeting. Bruce had only two immediate options and no time to find more. It had already been almost five weeks! He needed to make the best impression he could to secure control over the Darkness.

Smoothing his blue-grey linen jacket down with one hand, he hefted the heavy basket more firmly in the other and continued down the stairs. 

A few days ago he had sat in his study penning a request to meet in careful calligraphy. Bruce had expected an order to arrange a private room at a restaurant or lounge, perhaps a private tour of a botanical garden as Mistress Ivy had demanded... Something private, enclosed, and demonstrative of how Bruce's power would belong to the one he subbed for.

Edge had demanded nothing of the sort. Secluded, to be sure, but very public. It scared Bruce somewhat: the lack of containment, possibility of bystanders — _collateral damage_ — and the absence of accountability in no surveillance and possibly no witnesses.

He negotiated the several hundred wood-bound dirt steps down to the fine gravel of the beach, the wooded cliffs providing isolation and a freshness in the air reminiscent of the Wayne estate. It was bittersweet.

The beach was nearly deserted, driftwood trunks lying abandoned under the late morning light. A chilly early autumn breeze discouraged dawdling, clung to the bare skin at the back of his neck and slunk in past the open collar of his white shirt. A few people walked the beach, perhaps for exercise. Some sat in contemplation of the Shenandoahs. Bruce could see in the distance a man running and a couple in silhouette, ambling along.

He'd been allowed to see a glossy 8x11 of the Dom known as Edge, hardcopy only and for just a few moments. A masculine face, pale skin, carefully coiffed blond hair — Bruce's brain had been hijacked for long seconds with the idea that somewhere they had Mistress Ivy's photo, that he could use it to track her... So now he found himself at a loss, having used his time unwisely and not committed to memory his prospective Dom's face. Appalling! So which of the males idling alone was Edge? Bruce was early, perhaps Edge wasn't even here yet.

He didn't dare assume the privilege of sitting down on a Dom's territory, so he moved away from the stairs and stood waiting, switching the weight of the basket from hand to hand as necessary.

Eventually someone left, going up the stairs. The couple had disappeared from sight around the point in the beach. Two people struck up a conversation and finally moved to sit together. The runner came closer and did cooldown stretches not far from the staircase landing. He removed a black knit cap and revealed fluffy blond hair that could easily be what had been shown to Bruce in the photo.

Bruce's attention was captivated. Something about the runner's sure and succinct motion appealed, the comprehensive awareness of his body and its ability. Then the man stood as if collecting himself, or perhaps settling in to a long wait, hands grasping his belt either side of a nondescript buckle and elbows held out from his body... As if used to something being in the way of any other at-rest position for his arms... A full tactical vest, perhaps?

The phone in Bruce's breast pocket timidly dinged a one minute warning, and with one last look around the beach he made his choice and approached the runner. 

There's no good way to approach the average stranger while adhering to protocol; rules that Bruce has been living by since he was fifteen years old. Brucie was a veneer, played by different rules, but this was perhaps the most honest sort of interaction left in his life. He approached from the side, at a clearly visible angle, using small steps, avoiding eye contact without dipping his eyes to the floor in full submission.

"Sir?"

"Nihili," the man answered with Bruce's profile handle, unsurprised. Of course, the runner had sight of him for a good long while during his approach and likely had been given a photo of his prospective client, instantly recognizing Brucie Wayne. Edge studied him slowly now he was up close, it was nothing like a once-over and definitely like taking inventory.

Bruce held his tongue. Now that he'd ascertained this was no random beach visitor, the full rules of his station applied — at least the public ones, in Westernized circles. Until he was required to speak he would be silent, as was proper. Eyes on his toes in full submission, head slightly bowed, posture perfect. Those outside the lifestyle would see nothing improper; Bruce knew how much he was revealing.

He felt terribly exposed, wantonly displaying his true nature under an open sky. There were no blindfolds, no bindings, and perhaps that was for the best. The last time he'd submitted under an open sky he'd been twenty-four years old and had no choice in the matter, bound with heavy chains and painful contraptions keeping him open for use of the winners of the practice courting challenges of the day.

His vision darkened, the sand at his feet blurred into the grey rock of the Himalayas, dug into his knees ( _cold, so cold, the fierce winds always cutting into his complete nakedness, their spend dripping out of him and freezing before it could dry completely, cold iron searing through his skin, ropes burning without warmth, wood sticking with freezing sweat or tears or blood or..._ ).

A warm hand gently closed around his fingers. His eyes flew open ( _pale skin, so pale, he was the only one here, rescue? Alfred? No, please, don't look!_ ).

"What have you got for me, here?"

The tone was kind, warm... Brooklyn? A deep breath, long denied, and then another. The ocean brine shutting off the memories.

His lips moved in answer, responding to a direct question, and Bruce surfaced with barely enough time to catch the echo of his own words and parse the conversation he had missed. "Refreshments, sir. Appetizers, mostly. A small selection of cold drinks. It seemed terribly inappropriate to come empty-handed, even if the profile did not specify food preferences."

"Oh! Well, you're in luck. I love food, in general." The words were confident, the reassurance sincere, the smile... The smile got lost in eyes that looked _through_ Bruce and into something inside him. Peripheral vision was insufficient to make a definitive judgement , but even Bruce at his most honest did not seem enough for this Dom.

A statement did not require a verbal response, so Bruce remained silent and smiled pleasantly in acknowledgement... Or tried to. Part of him was relieved this man who might be entrusted with leashing the darkness refused to be fooled by any façade at all, no matter how honest. The rest of him began succumbing to the fear that nobody would want him now. He'd grown dependent on one steady owner, might not be able to make do with the sporadic one-playscene arrangements of his time at the Agency before Mistress Ivy.

The silence dragged on. Bruce's posture was still perfect, but each individual muscle felt taut like steel rope. Turning his head slightly away, and looking a couple of feet forward on the ground, he could see the impression of a frown on Edge's face. Bruce swallowed, but his throat was dry.

"I don't come here often," the man announced, walking away with the basket, confident that he would be followed. "I do know of this spot where the sand turns to proper gravel, less likely to sneak into everything and they piled their spare drift logs up there — makes a nice windbreak."

Bruce followed, of course. Two steps back and one to the left. He had to focus to catch every word spoken at him out on the windy shore, focus to maintain proper posture while in motion on shifting sands, pace his steps to the one he followed, anticipate trajectory changes... He had no time for his own thoughts, and he calmed down a fair amount.

"I usually _play_ outdoors. But not in public like this. I have a small farm. Nothing commercial, just enough for food for the house and to share with neighbors . Couple of ponds, stocked for fishing. Some horses. It's a two-thousand acre stretch, so if we entered into a Contract, you wouldn't have to worry about privacy." Edge kept walking and turned to cast a grin over his shoulder at Bruce for a moment. "Don't like motor vehicles going through if I can help it, tearing up the soil and making a racket, so we mostly use horses to get around."

There was a bounce in his step as he spoke of his playground. Was it his home, as well? Was it privately owned or did it belong to the Agency as Mistress Ivy's greenhouses did? Bruce felt lighter, like this — in Edge's periphery, soaking up his joy like sunshine, letting the information arouse his curiosity to harmless idle speculation.

"Do you ride?"

Bruce snapped out of the pleasant haze and scrambled to answer. "Yes, sir."

They continued walking. Sir's stride lost its bounce as the silence stretched, his shoulders seeming to tense under the fleece hugging the muscles. Had Sir wished to teach him from scratch how to ride? Perhaps Bruce was supposed to elaborate? Mistress Ivy had often punished him severely for not being succinct enough in his responses, and the casual Agency Dommes before her had never cared to converse. Only Selina had ever _chatted_ with him...

And he'd not been good enough for her.

The failure of disappointing her long ago combined with his present failure to behave as Sir wanted and his breaths shortened. Their pace hastened. What was he supposed to do? He didn't _want_ to be a disappointment, it was just the only thing he knew how to do... For all the protocols he'd learned, lifestyle and society, he was floundering and failing — always failing...

"Well, good. Since you can ride, that means we'd have more of the ranch available to use for Scenes."

The forced levity in his tone felt like lashes across Bruce's shoulders, the pain of it not outweighing the shame of putting Sir in a position where he had to salvage the conversation because the only other person party to it was this defective excuse for a slave. Bruce had to be _better than this!_ It had been _five weeks_ — this was dangerous.

Belatedly, quietly, "Yes, sir." An effort. A change; responding to a conversational opening rather than a direct question. It was an unforgivable break in protocol, but the situation was desperate.

Sir stopped abruptly and reached back for Bruce's hand. A peek to chest level revealed a small pleased smile on his lips. He didn't release Bruce's hand again until they'd sat down.

Bruce found he could breathe freely again.

Sir led them around a pile of logs and onto a scrap of beach between the logs and a boulder. Bruce turned and shuffled to take a suitable position with the change in available space. The extra shade made the chill in the air really settle but the lack of wind at least stopped pushing it up his slacks and numb bare ankles.

Setting the basket on the ground, the Dom released Bruce's hand and took a seat on a log. He gestured to the open space on the log beside him. "Have a seat."

Cordial, an order nonetheless. Bruce perched on the smooth wood, bark and imperfections rubbed away by the wild sea. Could he hope this man at home in the outdoors would tame him the same way? Patient and relentless, his reach pervasive, imposing his will ruthlessly upon everything in his path?

"Why did you want to meet me, Nihili?"

Sir's blue gaze was enlivened by true daylight, turned vibrant and unavoidable, and it was focused on Bruce. One of the many tones of blue in the sky and as inescapable.

Bruce squirmed but quickly gave into conditioning and answered, "You are combat trained, sir." Winced. Excessive honesty was a part of his conditioning that surfaced whenever he first subbed in the past. Ivy had given him constant practice at policing his words to say what she wanted to hear, instead. Five weeks, and already he'd lost the trick of it.

"Why is that important to you?"

The man had to be trained in interrogation as well, to hone in on the most shameful aspect of the truth. It could be part and parcel of being Elite Rank, being so perceptive; useful when indulging humiliation kinks. Bruce would have flushed to be so exposed, but he paled instead; fear of being rejected by his prospective owner overwhelming other responses.

"Because I am combat trained, sir."

Bruce broke out into a cold sweat, skin clammy and cooling rapidly in the autumn air. Sir merely sat and studied him. Was this one of the silences where he expected Bruce to spill his personal history open? How much would be enough? What if—?

"I offer many Services that appeal to those combat trained. Sparring, roughhousing, serious hikes, marathon training, wilderness survival training, Basic Training role-play..." A thoughtful pause. "That's not why you want it, though."

That was a statement, not a question. Bruce was failing; caught in a lie of omission. Bruce remained unmoving, the log below him nearly insubstantial, awareness of the water and the land beyond blurring, blurring...

A warm hand took a strong grip of his nape. Bruce twitched to break the grip, retaliate — the world snapped into focus and Bruce forced his body back into a neutral sitting pose. Sir had not shifted nor flinched, certain he could handle a blow from Bruce or foolish enough to believe Bruce could control the Darkness himself.

The grip remained, and Bruce surrendered to it. His skin slowly warmed, neck and shoulder muscles submitting into relaxation slowly, eyes on his own knees soon falling shut. The lush canopy behind them whispered in the wind, the susurration of the waves shyly weaving through it, all so different from Mistress' perfumed hot houses, from Talia's barren mountain. _This could work_. Maybe.

Bruce opened his eyes.

"You don't trust that you won't use your training against a Dom." Another statement; quiet but not tentative. "How did you manage that around Dommes, before?"

Of course. Air-gapped means unreachable, not non-existent; the Agency had records and Edge knew of Bruce's past exclusive preference for female Providers.

"Transient Contracts meant Providers did not take chances — they took one look at me and used their heaviest bindings. The Provisional Contract with Mistress Ivy showed she favoured metal bindings and complete immobilization... It seemed safe to accept a Persistent Contract from her."

The hand dropped, a heavy caress down his back, then Sir opened the basket and started going through its contents. Comfortable silence enveloped them for a few moments, broken by Sir reaching out a hand toward Bruce laden with a small caprino-con-frutta crostini. 

"Eat this."

Bruce accepted it and took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Then another. 

Sir waited. He looked out over the water, considering. A long exhale and he started going through the neatly labelled containers in the basket, grabbed the quiche lorraine, sat back to eat them from the box. 

Bruce brushed the crumbs from his fingers and looked from the china and napkins strapped to the inside of the basket lid to Sir's hands, and back again. The sugar had helped him feel more settled, but distress was building anew — he'd once again put this Dom in an uncomfortable position, forced him to take care of Bruce in his weakness and was now leaving him to serve himself. It was not proper, but neither was acting without orders.

Sir rewarded breaking protocol, Bruce did notice that. He seemed very comfortable with the burden of complete control over a situation, though, and might not welcome someone else trying to assume leadership in however minor a capacity. Perhaps a middle ground — not acting, but asking for permission to act? He'd seen military subordinates do such things and it was their protocol.

Clearing his throat silently, nervously, Bruce hazarded, "Might I lay out the meal, sir?"

Sir smiled. Smiled. _At Bruce_ . Reached out to grasp his right wrist firmly and pulled him toward the basket. "Yeah. Get down there and show off this feast you brought me."

Gratefully, Bruce went to his knees by the basket, savouring the bite of the sharp little stones mixed amid the water-smoothed pebbles. He worked to smooth out the ground, lay the quilted cloth out, started setting out containers. A simple task, but he was being of use and there was pain (however small) and orders to follow and best of all Bruce was _not in control_ of this. Unburdened.

Penance was not always violent, as he well knew. Often, Mistress Ivy had used patience itself, anticipation, to cause the keenest pain. This was, after all, why Bruce had waited weeks before acting, believing it a ploy. Was this perhaps also a ploy? Did Sir favor putting his subs into low-danger but high-anxiety situations? Perceiving their weakness, cornering, until they had no choice but utter surrender?

If so, it was clever, and he was a master of the technique. To be expected of Elite Rank, of course.

But no, Sir had smiled. And touched him again, gently. However, causing distress and then offering comfort was a well-known manipulation... Bruce set out one of each of the drinks now, pulling them out of their icy koozies, set the basket aside to leave unhindered access to the meal for Sir, and knelt in place to wait. 

"That looks amazing. Must have taken somebody hours to do so many different recipes. Thanks." A small friendly smile, fingers running through Bruce's hair in a gentle caress, then Sir was lowering himself to the available space for him on the blanket.

That... Did not fit the pattern. Why was reward offered without first causing pain? Could kneeling on occasionally sharp gravel while moving around carrying things count as pain? It was so minor, though. Sir had high scores in Services like flogging, paddling, caning, cat and single tail whips — surely this insignificant bit of discomfort was not considered worthy of reward by such a man.

Bruce watched him bite into a cucumber-mascarpone-salmon roll and moan.

"Here, have some of this. It's delicious," Sir encouraged, pointing at the rolls.

Bruce obediently ate one. It was as good as expected from Alfred's kitchen.

"Oh! Oh, this one!" Sir looked beautiful wearing that gleeful smile.

Bruce's hand was gripped, a caviar brioche placed within it, his hand released with a caress.

Consuming the treat was a bit difficult with a trembling hand. Sir was praising what Bruce had provided, almost hand-feeding him, _petting_ him... Certainly fully in control, but where was the bite in this? How was Bruce earning all this reward?

All this time Bruce had been kneeling outside the blanket, kneecaps reshaping around the points of the gravel since he'd stopped moving around. Now a strong hand grabbed hold of the fragile cotton at the front of his shirt and tugged authoritatively. Bruce shuffled forward following the physical order, until his legs were on the blanket from knee to ankle, until the hand pulled downwards and decreed he would stay put. Bruce sat back on his heels again.

Sir swallowed his latest bite and sucked on a bit of cheese off his finger then looked sideways at Bruce and grinned, small and mischievous. He seized a prosciutto-asparagus straw and offered it to Bruce, pressed it to his lips; imperiously demanding entrance.

Bruce opened his mouth wide for the rather larger treat, and waited for further orders.

As Sir pushed it past his lips, against his tongue, he asked, "How well do you take dick?"

Bruce was suddenly

 _—fifteen years old and on his knees before Ra's a_ _l Ghul_ _. He'd been led to Ra's' lavishly appointed (for that part of the world) quarters and ordered to strip. Ordered to kneel. Ordered to open his mouth... Later, ordered to open his legs. Once, twice, again. He'd done so happy to bear this pain for the man he'd fallen in love with; his first love, his first lover.  
_

_There were_ _no_ _dreams of forever —Ra's was not that kind of man— but at the time that stolen night had seemed precious. There'd been blood on the sheets in the morning; Bruce could see the drops and streaks from the plush rug where he'd slept between bouts. He'd felt it was right, that he should worship such a magnificent warrior from a position of abasement. That he should not stay close for long lest he be seared by the man's intensity, his passion.  
_

_He'd woken nearly too sore to stand but with a smile on his lips. He'd started planning how to survive sparring and drills in his condition, until he healed... A different sort of training had begun instead— Talia had—  
_

Motion near his face, in his mouth, startled him. The scent of European styled food clashed with his thoughts. The canapé was withdrawing, was falling carelessly to the blanket, and the man sitting before him was trying not to frown.

A direct question! Bruce must answer! Quick! Not all was lost yet! "As well as anyone bound immobile usually does, sir." No. No! He was ruining things! He had to _think!_ What did this particular Dom wish to hear?

Bruce shut his eyes. Did not see Sir rise to his knees, his arms reaching out around Bruce, the strong grip bringing him forward to standing on his knees, fully pressed front to front.

A hand carded through Bruce's hair and a quiet voice warmed his right ear, asking, confidentially, "How long has it been since a man had you, Bruce?"

Distress then comfort — the pattern held. That was more reassuring than being imprisoned in a man's arms at the moment. "Twenty years," fell tonelessly, thoughtlessly, from his lips. "Sir." Protocol was scant refuge, but Bruce really had nothing else.

The embrace held, evolved into a rocking motion for a bit. Bruce obeyed the hand that pressed his head down, tucked his wet face against Sir's neck, breathed the clean masculine scent so different from that of people dwelling up high in cold, forgotten mountains. His body relaxed, his mind settled; he was successfully meeting the current demand and had only to surrender his body to be moved as Sir wished.

Slowly, he was released and arranged to sit back on his heels, his hands placed atop his knees, still held by this Dom who needled until the Darkness reared up out of memories best forgotten then soothed with touch only to do it all over again. Bruce was exhausted; had no cuts or bruises to show for it.

They sat in silence a while. Sir sat on his previous spot and reached for a sparkling blood orange drink, sighed heavily.

Bruce reached back for the basket. "If Sir would like, there's also light alcoholic options—"

"Hey, call me Steve."

Bruce froze, his brain stuttered. A change in the status quo. Was this the beginning or the end? His mind searched rapid-fire through the last few minutes, stumbled upon _'since a man had you, Bruce?'_

Of course, he'd been recognized. He'd expected that; known it. Was it now or then that things had changed? This man that comforted and rewarded with touch — how would he use penetrative sex in a Scene? How would he want such touch to be received? Probably not with fear. Fear of helplessness, weakness. Fear of falling in love and the terrible consequences of it.

It was over before it'd begun.

"If you would like, Steve, there's also light alcoholic options," Bruce repeated. If nothing else, society protocol still applied. _Remember your manners, Bruce._

"No... No, thank you." Quiet. Resigned.

Bruce feared looking up and seeing the same, just like on Alfred's face. Was the damage the Bat did not enough? _Must he destroy everyone around Bruce as well?_ The Darkness was not just violence. He'd chosen this Dom because he could handle the violence, yet had neglected to consider that the poison inside him might leak through, taint others by mere association. This taint was _contagious_.

A streak of wetness trailed down his cheek. His hands clenched into fists and his frame trembled with the urge to destroy; destroy this thing within, break it open and spill venom to be washed away by the sea, obliterated by ruthless Nature.

Blue eyes filled his vision then, ducking low to reach his hidden face. The sun had shifted, and they were still clear and beautiful but now merely blue like any other eyes. They closed, and warm lips pressed against Bruce's — greeting and farewell. It was a gentleness, a sincere kindness, that Bruce had not experienced since Selina.

"This was nice," said Steve the Dom who had chosen not to own Bruce.

"But it won't work." Bruce knew this. There was no sense in hiding from the truth or prolonging this pain that did not cleanse or atone.

"No, I don't think so." A quiet admission stolen by the breeze. A door closing with finality.

"Thank you for meeting with me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. nihilum: noun ( _genitive_ **nihilī** ); _second declension_. Nothingness, void, absence of anything.  
> genitive: relating to or denoting a case of nouns and pronouns (and words in grammatical agreement with them) indicating possession or close association.
> 
> Bruce's Agency ID handle is Nihili and (we think) means belonging to nothingness or to the void.
> 
> 2\. Subs should be respectful (obviously, the same goes for Doms/Dommes) but no Submissive should act submissively to _every_ Dom he encounters, even the ones he wants to engage, until they've struck a deal. This is even extreme for a Slave that seeks an owner, not to mention dangerous.
> 
> Bruce's behavior is indicative of how damaged he is, and is not meant to portray how a Sub is actually expected to behave.


	7. Chapter 7

Logically, he could not smell it. Limousines were not like town cars; the trunk was entirely sealed from the cabin. Rationally, the smell did not exist.

The scent of the uneaten remains of their picnic lingered in his mind if not his nasal passages. He should have brushed his teeth — by the side of the road if necessary, no matter how uncouth.

The chill wore off his skin, his knees soon stopped hurting from the gravel and the only physical discomfort he was left with was the uneasy way the food sat in his stomach. As the road disappeared beneath them, bringing them closer to the Manor once again, Bruce alternately tried to cling to and forget the touches on his skin — his hands, his neck, his lips...

His first contact with a Dominant in five weeks had been disastrous.

Truth, spilling into his mind and his actions all over the place. Obvious enough to be recognized for the filth it was, enough to turn away Edge— Steve. Smart man.

Comfort. _Weakness_. Part of Bruce had been revived and hoped for more convivial conversation, firm caresses, the safety of being in a Dom's arms. Anyone willing to offer such would just be torn apart by the Darkness; he could not let them near, had to bear this _need_ clawing at him... Alone.

Not alone enough.

The absence of pain haunted him, a physical presence in the vehicle with him staring him down and grinning madly. It cackled in his ears, chased him right out of the limo as soon as it came to a stop in the Manor driveway. Sent him racing across deserted hallways as soon as he was inside and right to his study. Wheezed with fetid breath over his shoulder, as he ruined page after page attempting to pen a Request to Meet with his last viable option.

Mr.S.

Memories hounded him all evening and all night, tormenting him into pacing through the vast expanse of the Manor until an Agency Courier arrived first thing in the morning. Bruce gave into his keeping the triple-sealed envelope and they performed the involved high-tech handoff guaranteeing as much secrecy as The Agency and its clients demanded.

And then it was done.

Bruce's last hand had been dealt, and what remained was only playing it through and finding out... Finding out if the Darkness would win, or if there was still a Dom that could help.

Memories followed him into sleep and grew teeth...

_There was a strange fizzle of energy beneath his silken dressing robe, beneath his skin, as he sat at the Mainframe holding his breakfast coffee in delicate china._

_He had barely slept the last few days, too high on the vicious satisfaction of_ _unravelling_ _the trafficking ring. This time, those particular people would not be able to walk around undetected, lure in victims with promises of a better life. No, oh_ _no_ _. Because_ this _time they were permanently_ _labeled_ _where all could see._

_Batman forced himself to lean back into his chair and relax tense muscles; soreness from fighting was acceptable, even desired — from self-congratulatory posturing, it was not. He sipped his coffee calmly and scanned the feeds from ongoing searches, hunting his next target._

_Yes, tonight someone else would be branded on the cheek as a slaver. One more link in the chain would be rendered useless. Setting his empty cup down out of the way, he leaned into one of the terminals and started working in earnest._

_Sometime later well-known footsteps came down the stairs into the cave. They were unusually slow and heavy; Batman frowned, wondering if illness would rob him of the last member of his family now even Selina was gone..._

_Irritated with himself, he focused harder on his work. Childish fears and jumping to conclusions was sentimental drivel that had_ _no_ _place in the Mission. If it proved to be an illness it would be dealt with then. If death came calling... He stifled an instinctual shake of the head denying the possibility, breathed deep once, exhaled slowly, pretended to focus on the text in front of him. Childish! Irritating!_

_Irrelevant._

_The steps came to a stop by his chair. A quiet observation in an unusually strong London accent, "There seems to be someone with a penchant for branding criminals out there, sir. Imagine that. Only two kinds of messages are ever written on them though... Slaver. Rapist."_

_The day's newspaper was placed at Batman's elbow, folded open to the story of a recently convicted criminal being murdered during a prison riot — a riot that began because of the neat scarification body art the criminal proudly displayed over a cheekbone._ Slaver _. The prison intake photo in the article showed it had fully healed by then; more proof of how slowly the judicial system moved._

_Batman eyed both the newspaper and the messenger through his peripheral vision, refusing to engage lest he be called upon to defend his choices yet again. Fighting in the boardroom, the galas, the streets, and also at home? It grew tiresome. The Mission was a harsh taskmistress. His only mistress now..._

_Good. It was good, that his focus would_ _no_ _longer be_ _split_ _.  
_

_No more words were forthcoming, just the silent and well-_ _practiced_ _motions gathering his breakfast dishes and lingering over invisible crumbs. Batman inhaled and braced for the fight he knew was coming, gathered his righteousness around himself as he would his cape before a dive—  
_

_The dishes were set down again with a sudden clatter, but_ _no_ _angry words followed. Well, not angry at Batman..._

_Hands then flat on the desk, carrying all of the old man's weight and possibly the weight of the world entire, the morning's messenger almost whispered. The low volume only seemed to concentrate the venom in the words, "Just how badly did I fail you, young sir?"_

_Silence._

_Stillness._

_Minutes went by._

_Alfred did his best to pick up the dishes again, had to hold both cup and saucer to keep the shaking of his hands from rattling the china right off his hands and into shards. Perhaps he felt enough of the House of Wayne had been ruined while in his care._

_As the last of his family retreated up the stairs, Bruce finally stopped hiding in the Mainframe's terminal and looked around. The article, the smears where Alfred's hands leaned fully on the gleaming surface of the desk — everything suddenly felt like too much and the buzz of satisfaction he had been riding since he awoke morphed into a restlessness that made him pace._

_He stalked through the cave in agitated steps, resolving nothing, mind a blank._ Alfred is in pain. I am to blame — yet again! _He stopped. But surely, Alfred could not be sure of his conclusion..._

 _Bruce walked quickly to the_ _armor_ _display — most of it was clean and put away tidily. The belt was missing. He turned around to look over the nearby work tables... Of course. There on the gleaming stainless steel lay the culprit. The_ _armor_ _'s utility belt, entirely empty and rolled up loosely on the clean side of the table. Most of the belt's attachments were still lined up on the side of equipment awaiting maintenance, but two very specific pouches lay quietly, closed, gleaming cleanly._

 _Bruce had forgotten to clean the brands himself while riding in the Tumbler, before coming in last night. He'd taken care, before, to clean them and then use them to burn the words into wood, seeming just a way to leave a message about the criminal tied up nearby — pretending the message had not been left_ on _the criminal. Embedded in their skins. Their faces._

_They would never escape their past. Never forget. Every mirror would remind them, every recoil from passerby, every suspicious look from the authorities._

_Shaking. Alfred had been shaking, like it had been his own hand that had done this. Shaking, because the words Bruce had chosen gave away too much. Shaking... Because he blamed himself for a young boy being enslaved and raped. He blamed himself. Alfred blamed himself for..._

_For Bruce._

_He was staring at the bottom of a wall in the cave, and at his own regurgitate pooling on the ground. The stone wall should have felt cold against his side, but his whole body was far too distant at this moment to tell._

_The Darkness could do as it liked with Bruce; it always had and Bruce had not fought..._

_But_ it could NOT have Alfred.

_This apartment is in shambles_...

Not really, but in Clark's eyes this lived-in look was both unprofessional and disquieting. If everything was not exactly in its place, how would he know when someone came in and moved things?

It actually helped him unwind to see his personal spaces slowly become tidy as he worked. He felt an uncomplicated joy in the accomplishment.

That would be a great way to spend his morning. He really needed it. He'd spent whatever free time he had the last few days wading through Ivy's personal records of her clients.

His phone buzzed with incoming messages, back in the bedroom, so he stopped frowning at his living room and went to see what it was about. Of course, it was his AComm — nobody else really had this number, and Ma never texted.

> [6815740] RA2. Approved
> 
> [2426891] Cancellation. Work
> 
> [8776136] Transfer successful
> 
> [2816158] XI. Interest. Preemptive offered. Provisional requested;

One healthy person to schedule a first play session with, one unexpected and welcome break in his schedule for the mundane reason of workplace demands, one funds transfer received in payment, and...

They'd started marking clients rescued from Ivy with 'XI'. Ex-Ivy. Providers simply needed the warning to brace themselves... As the rest of the message proved.

Notice of Interest with Preemptive Consent Contract _and_ wanting a Provisional Contract sight unseen? This client was going to end up getting himself fucking killed, at this rate. It would be a man; Ivy so far seemed to only take male subs. Clark had to Meet him, but the chances of someone this near to suicidal making it past re-assessment were awfully low; he wasn't sure if that was a relief or cause for guilt that Clark was shirking the chance to give him help he so clearly needed.

 _Let's not deal with that quite this early in the morning_.

After a shower, a coffee, and a bowl of fruit and granola, he started tidying. Just picking up things, cleaning them, putting them away correctly... Simple work that he didn't need to really focus on, so he let his mind wander.

Spike's Meet and Clark's subsequent research had really highlighted the need for experts to look into Ivy's notes. Medical had told Clark they would consider more research into the herbal products Ivy used, but they didn't have full access to all the archived client notes like an Elite Provider would.

Clark wiped down the leaves of his aloe vera plants and set them back at a different rotation, to even out the new growth. _You guys are so good... Like any thing, I guess plants are neither good nor evil; it's the intention of the wielder that counts_.

So it wasn't until after many waves of Clark demanding reassessment —and the clients failing in vast numbers for chemical dependencies, chemical burns, scarring caused by chemically induced conditions— that they took him seriously enough to mention it to Legal. Legal had a grown cow, with horns and everything but the balls.

The coat closet floor actually looked dusty. _What a terrible first impression to make_. Clark took out all the shoes and wiped down the walls, shoe-rack, and floor.

They had finally raided Ivy's off-site Playground, a farmhouse and several greenhouses, to look at her "science" files. When the Agency had taken control of the place it had been noted she had a lot of research files into plants; an honest mistake, since everything was filed under plant names. They were actually all private records of Agency clients, but unless one realized that human parts were being referenced —not petri dishes— and the 'subjects' in question were clients...

It had not seemed relevant before.

Clark re-arranged his hanging display so the floggers would hang exactly so, the whips coiled to exactly the same size with their tails at precisely different angles — if anyone snuck in and pawed at things in here, they wouldn't know to put everything back since it seemed so casual.

He'd spent the previous afternoon wading through another batch of boxes brought in from there. The Agency had asked their most trusted Providers to help sift through and take some of the load off Archives and Medical, who were having a hard enough time cross referencing the 'subjects' in each folder (which were only filed by plant specimen) with many clients and also researching what exactly her concoctions would do. Though Ivy’s clients had been submissives and therefore the burden of dealing with what some of the Providers had been calling the Poison Ivy debacle had fallen mostly on the Doms, the sheer amount of work had them pulling in Elite submissives for this. Hal had been one of them, and he’d given Clark and the others an earful after just one session poring over several of Ivy’s files.

All the cushions got plumped, all the upholstery got vacuumed, the throws did a round in the laundry... He was just stalling now. Clark composed his face and walked confidently into his Vault to start the day's work.

Long manic rants, personal diaries, videos not included in formal client files —Clark could hardly cast stones about that— were things he was not at all looking forward to, but were certain to be in his day's work researching this new ex-Ivy client. Not to mention enough organic chemistry to choke a horse—Clark had heard The Agency had to pull Alec Holland out of his retirement/sabbatical to make sense of the worst of it; the former scientist turned submissive Service Provider was the only Elite in the Agency’s ranks with a background in botany. The official notes she submitted were bad enough, but apparently only a haphazard sampling of the _real_ notes she took during each experiment (Clark refused to call them Scenes anymore).

He worked out his schedule, sent out orders as needed to his clients, reviewed any video assignments handed in, took notes, filed a request for 2816158's L2 records to be copied for him and 6815740's L3. He locked up the apartment and commuted to the office.

The good and bad thing about being part of the staff working with Ivy's personal records, was that he could find L3 and L4 information about his clients before he even had to Meet them. It was a horrifying security risk but he would have more information to work with right from the start — which was good. But he'd have to meet a person for the first time knowing some of the most traumatic details of their life.

Not so good.


	8. Chapter 8

Late that afternoon, Clark finally had time to return to his Vault and properly start researching 2816158, codenamed Nihili.

He had made sure all the files he would need were ready early in the day, then spent a few hours helping out in the Belly (of the Leviathan, a cavernous hangar/warehouse for multipurpose use in one of the Agency basements). That's where Ivy's ocean of paperwork was being kept; everyone was at least grateful it did not seem like she had electronic backups she could use now for blackmail even if working in hardcopy was tedious and error-prone.

It had been not unlike looking for needles in a pile of dressmaker pins, but he had gotten a few discs that included Nihili's number ID. It would take much more than a month to enter all of Ivy's data into a computer system so all mentions of a client would be linked to the client file. He'd taken the discs home, along with one of her thickest personal files, to take notes on their contents and still be on time for Scening at home in the afternoon.

He started with the official file. It was among the thickest he'd seen, even compared to Ivy's other bloated records. A quick peek at the Identity Contract, earlier, had given him the client's handle. Background check—

_Sealed?? Ooooo-kay? Is this guy an international spy or something? Guess even Elite don't get to see all the L2 information. Huh..._

Financials was a single page. Approved, no caveats, no Tier limits.

_Wow... So that is how this guy could keep using the Agency for 9 years. That's not the kind of Financial review even the nouveau riche can get. This was a really big name client... And the Agency let Ivy abuse him. Wow. Ok, so Legal definitely wants this guy taken in._

Nihili had signed Registration Contracts as they were updated over the years. _Should be easy enough to work with him through the paperwork, then. I hope._

The client's first and last Assessment had been when he joined the Agency, 2004.

_That's an awful long time._

Clark made a note of that; if the sub became unstable at the delay of going in for reassessment it sounded like an unemotional reason to give. However, this begged the question: why was the Medical section of his file so thick yet nobody had sent him in for thorough review? A mystery for another hour, then. _  
_

Over a hundred and sixty Transient Contracts over the years, all with different female Dominant Providers and seeming to completely disregard Rank. Then one Transient and one Persistent Contract with Ivy that continued through the last two years... Clark went through them making notes of commonalities — the client wasn't much for giving preferences, so details were sparse. Hard limits, safewords, requests. Up until Ivy he'd not stayed with anyone long enough for a Contract to be truly customized.

> **September 23, 2012**
> 
> Session 9, Subject 724 [#2816158] TenForty-eight
> 
> 23:00 Subject noncompliant. Corrective measures applied. Compliance is budding. Subject applied stinging nettle to specimen patch 7 with minimal prompting.

Back to her first meeting with the thickest file: 2816158. Out of the ten consecutive Transient and one Provisional Contracts Ivy had with this client, callsign Nihili — this shit had _never_ been agreed upon. Videos weren't consented to, so what the fuck was in those DVD pockets in the back sleeve of 2816158's file?

He grabbed the one with the date that corresponded to the session he'd read, loaded it into his disk reader and clicked the play button absently, still skimming—

 _"Jesus fuck_ , almighty...!" Papers hit his desk as Clark reeled back from his speakers.

The scream filled his office, echoing through metal and glass.

Clark scrambled for the volume control. The scream lingered, ringing in his ears even after he'd turned the output down. A man.

And underneath that scream was a sound he knew: Ivy's laughter.

Until that moment he hadn't known how much he hoped there'd been a mistake. Sure, Pam was a cold one, always giving people the brush-off, always acting untouchable and putting on airs that were definitely affectations, not rearing, but she'd put in a good two years time, and she'd seemed dedicated. Harmlessly eccentric, like any of them. Like _one of them._

But it wasn't a mistake.

There Pam— Ivy— was now, maniacally flogging a man so viciously that it made Clark's triceps ache.

The compulsive, repetitive twitching. The low, pained and forsaken-sounding moans. The securely blindfolded eyes that were streaming, the bared teeth buried in the submissive's lower lip. The way the sub was no longer even flinching defensively— all but hanging in the clumsy metal bonds, body absorbing the thud of each audibly solid hit. Droplets of red stood out against the industrial-looking tile, multiplying as Clark watched.

The frenetic verbal self-abasement the man had obviously been ordered to perform, calling himself a worm, a failure. A nothing-person.

"You're a _whore,"_ Clark clearly heard through the speakers. " _Say_ it. Tell the world, darling – I already know. _Admit_ it!"

"Pearl," gasped the half-hooded figure, possibly the word he'd screamed before. Clark turned the folder quickly to Known Safewords and yes— there it was, in 14 point black and white.

> Pearl
> 
> Zorro
> 
> Matches
> 
> September

"Oh, ten forty-eight, how delightful!"

It seemed that the submissive said something then, too low to be picked up. The sound quality of the recording in the lower bands was inconsistent enough that Clark was certain it hadn't been filmed on Agency grounds, or at least not with Agency equipment.

"You decided to speak up after all. I _told_ you I'd get that mouth running." Clark watched as the unhinged Domme strutted languidly from one side of the submissive to the other. "You don't like your new nickname? How dare you complain, you sniveling , puffed-up, _miniscule_ man? _Pathetic_. Is _this_ keeping you _focused_ enough, pig?"

"Yes Mistress, please— September. _September._ "

Another safeword.

She touched him lightly, aping gentleness, smoothed what looked to be dark brown hair — and if he weren’t so horrified by what he was watching, he’d be noting those grey streaks with interest— only to yank the hair in her reach instead, pulling until the submissive was leaning forward, shoulders bunched with the strain of keeping his hair from being ripped out at the roots.

Another safeword _i_ _gnored._

"Disgusting. Look at you— sweating, _stinking_. Making your _mess._ You're just another dumb animal... A waste of good oxygen and carbon." Ivy struck him again, horizontally, across the torso. A bright welt rose. "A _waste_ of good _manners_. A _waste_ of _good_ _food._ Aren't you glad I have pity on your valueless existence?" Another meaty strike. "All that money and breeding, and this is the only thing you're good for."

The submissive's head hung even lower as he gasped, resignation in the line of his shoulders before they closed.

Clark's stomach lurched as Ivy laughed, playfully. She _laughed,_ as if the man's safeword were a joke, then released her thick handful of hair. As soon as the man sagged, breath rasping heavily, she slapped him, hard across the face. 

"I asked you a _question_." A livid crimson line appeared at the side of the submissive's exposed lips. "Useless. What will you tell the boys at your little Club _now_ , hm?" she said archly. Red dripped from his face. His voice was hushed.

"Nothing, Mistress." Clark winced at the exhaustion, the weary acceptance in that ragged voice. Overtop that, Ivy's usual florid drawl was sinister.

"Even for you, that's unconvincing, worm. I suppose I can't blame you _too_ much for being inconsiderate. It is in your _nature_ , after all."

"Yes... yes, Mistress."

"You _men,"_ she went on as if he hadn't spoken. "All you know how to do is _whine_." She began delivering brutal strikes to the rhythm of her words. "All you know how to do is _fuck_ and _destroy_ and _fuck_ , isn't that right?"

"Mistress—" The sub's voice was thick. "No, Mistress—"

"You just _have_ to... _force_ your _stamen_ into _everything._ No respect for the feminine _force_ , no respect for _Mother._ _Earth_! No respect for my _time—"_

"And now you can't even accomplish the smallest—" Ivy looked down. "The _very_ smallest task you're given." She reached between the submissive's legs. "You can't even give me my favorite diversion." As her forearm tensed, Clark assumed it was to make an adjustment to straps. " _Bad boy."_

The man's response onscreen was immediate and visceral. He beat his head violently against the padded bracket of the cross he was bound to, hands clenching _._

 _"_ Speak up, worm – I can't hear you _."_ A series of panting grunts escaped the submissive. "Oh now, don't be shy," Ivy purred, arm flexing, before another guttural yell rang out. "You selfish, _selfish_ brute. At least have the _balls—"_

The submissive's throat bobbed, the exposed area of his face turning red as he made a sound that was somehow worse than a scream— a choked off whimper that ended almost as soon as it had begun.

 _"_ To tell me you realize how much you _deserve_ this," Ivy commanded.

Clark could count the tendons standing out on the submissive's thickly muscled neck. Horrified, he fought down his gorge — this hadn't even been their last session. _2816158_ had come back. The written notes said he'd come back fourteen more times total, before she'd 'taken him on' as she wrote.

The submissive took in air in a harried rush, his stomach muscles looking agonized, but his words were unconscionably steady, if slightly higher-toned when he replied.

"This whore deserves punishment, Mistress." 

If there was any enjoyment, any _joy,_ any emotion at all in the man's voice, Clark couldn't hear it.

Nausea hit the back of his throat, pressing undeniably. Clark swallowed hard, then again. His balls felt like they'd shriveled and pulled up into his stomach— possibly to his ribs, possibly to _stay,_ with the way his chest felt. His legs had drawn together without his permission.

The disreputable Domme onscreen kept railing at her submissive. "That's right – you _do._ And you expect me to _reward_ you for failing me again. As if it doesn't _sicken_ me to _look at yo—"_

Clark rocked forward to pause the tape. It took several tries, his finger stabbing at the button, slipping on the smooth glassy surface.

When the sound of Ivy's voice stopped, Clark laid both hands flat on his desk. He took one deep breath, then another, then _another_ , his thoughts chasing themselves. His chest was heavy, his hands shaking as he tried to get himself under control.

Clark's head snapped towards his entranceway. Nerves sparking icy chills, he froze. His head tilted. Had he heard a noise? It was worse abruptly, the prickles on his skin, the sensation of pressure— someone was watching him, someone was _in_ his home—

Silently, he swung the vault door shut on its raised hinges and turned the lock, peering out of the doors view-window.

 _No. Not possible._ His body didn't care, and the certainty felt unsteady, was slipping—

Instinctively, primally, knowing it was paranoia, knowing there was no way, _there was_ _no_ _way_ anyone could possibly—

 _God, calm down, just paranoia, just hypervigilance, just in my head, it's just in my head, it's not_ **_him_** _—_

Clark checked the feeds anyway. The cameras at the doors—front, side-street and corridor, each room, including the Playroom... The street out front.

There was a suspiciously double-parked car in front of the building, carrying two unmoving forms.

He narrowed his eyes, watching until the two embraced briefly, and the passenger door opened, spilling a man onto the sidewalk. A familiar face, yes, though Clark didn't know his name. 

He watched the man walk into the apartment complex across the street, then sat, eyes fixed, until the vehicle pulled away from the curb and drove off. And Clark could have stopped there, he could have— _should have—_

Instead, he watched seven more cars drive past until they cleared the block. Slightly more than rush hour traffic, though the day was warm and sunny enough for joyriders, too. That explained things well, didn't it?

Unconvinced, Clark continued to stare fixedly at the monitors.

Two early afternoon pedestrians walking their dogs— a man and a woman. A quintuplet of uniformed teenagers from the girl's school a block over, walking as fast as they were talking, arms moving in expansive gestures, faces wide smiles, exuberant. A corner handoff between an older woman and a young man. An older kid on a skateboard with too much hair gel and apparently not enough rips in his jeans, judging by his wheels.

He kept watching. One of the downstairs neighbors, a woman who would occasionally scatter birdseed in the back lot, tottered out the front door.

There she was now in fact, walking past his private entrance without once glancing at it or the cameras mounted above it. Busily tossing her gourmet birdseed into the wind. Nothing out of place. No one who shouldn't be here—

Though he knew he shouldn't, Clark kept watching until, bag empty, the woman walked back past his door and re-entered the building. The light was changed, the sun was low in the sky, spreading velvet shadows across everything. A quiet evening, as usual.

 _Nothing. It was nothing. There was_ _no_ _'sound'. There's_ _no_ _one there._ Slowly, his heart stopped its frantic thudding.

Unsettled, Clark unlocked the vault door, and padded to his kitchen. He stood by his water cooler while he drank a tall glass of spring water; he'd learned the hard way years ago not to trust the city water in Gotham. He'd learned the hard way not to trust a lot of things in Gotham.

_Can't say I didn't learn something today. Fuck's sake..._

He eyed the clock and made himself a sandwich absently, then stared at it. Regretfully, he put it in a plastic container and slid it back into the fridge along with the fixings.

With a grimace, he walked back to his viewing room and dropped into his seat. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as it had been before he'd started watching 2816158's video documentation. He argued with himself for a few moments on the ethics of using the data at hand to form a Client profile of his own or not. On one hand, the Client had not authorized these recordings— they weren't officially a part of his record, at least not on paper.

On the other hand, Clark had been with the Agency long enough to know there were plenty of details that made it into Records, that Clients were never privy to.

Given the context and details of the overall situation...

He found himself wondering if there were higher-level records, if there were other disks.

_Unlikely, but not impossible._

The damage was already done. Whether Clark viewed more or not, he couldn't change it. But if he were to take this Client— and he couldn't believe, could barely believe he was even considering it, in light of all the obvious reasons why he should not—

If he were going to take this Client, he needed this information, any information he could get. Ask a Client, might have been the first response he could expect from a non-Provider, but every Provider knew: The wealthier the Client, the more notorious they were for downplaying or hiding information that might disqualify them for Services.

And this Client was exceptionally wealthy, as 2816158's financial report showed.

Clark exhaled hard and re-opened the file. He took out a fresh journal—a necessity for documenting each Client's needs— tightened his stomach and pressed 'play'. This time, though, he made sure to turn the audio down.

Twice more she'd done this exact same scene with different toxic plant batches and happily noted in one 'sample log' that the erection was so swollen, the sound simply could not be pulled out, even with pliers, for 3 hours.

> **March 23, 2013**
> 
> Session 12, Subject #2816158:
> 
> 15:30 Test Specimen (U. dioica Ra6 distillate) applied to Subject.
> 
> 19:46 Ischemic priapism incipient, administering therapeutic aspiration. Application of glycerol needed to maintain specimen absorption rate. Subject conscious and verbal for procedure.
> 
> 22:00 Cavernous aspiration a success. Subject tolerance higher than average. Benefits to specimen log exploration noted. Continuing contact test batch experiment.

Of course, according to her notes she'd never used lube if she could get away with it, and _2816158_ seemed to be a favorite of hers. In the last visual entry, she'd been thrilled when the thorns alone caused the 7mm dilated urethra to swell shut completely. Clark forced himself to sit through it— if the client could take it, the least Clark could do was watch with open eyes. He strove to witness the Scene dispassionately and take useable notes.

_The Client was hooded. His body was strong; he was tall. Almost hypermuscular, long and broad. He was, in short, built like a brick shithouse— not a small man by any means. He was restless, squirming, chest rising and falling too fast— panicking, red flag, RED FLAG—hyperventilating, shaking and tugging at—he was in shock—  
_

Clark stopped the playback, took a deep breath and then tried again.

_The Client was hooded, though his eyes and cheekbones were visible. The Client was not gagged. The Client was bound with nonstandard rope_ _fiber_ _, perhaps sisal or coir— difficult to say at the camera distance available. It was however easy to see the wide bands of ruddy skin irritation and the heavy metal cuffs reminiscent of shackles. The Client's mouth moved: one word, impossible to hear. The Provider, face turned towards the camera's lens, obviously heard him. She laughed._

_The Client was exhibiting marked distress. His pulse was visibly throbbing, trembling in the extremities, clenching and opening his hands in a way that could have been the last drops of resistance or the first sign of approaching nerve damage._

_The restraint belts were thick— the range of motion available to the Client was extremely curtailed, arms extended upward and bound. The Client was bound either for too long or too tightly— his arms, torso, waist,_ _ankles, thighs and wrists_ _were raw. The Client wept.  
_

_The Provider taunted him, then struck the Client: one horizontal stripe across the chest. The Implement was long and unfamiliar, slender and whiplike. Green?? It had at least one small sharp edge— the beads of blood were clearly delineated.  
_

_The Client spoke again, the same safeword, louder. The Client had already sustained lacerations and his skin was deeply flushed and looked inflamed. The Client... begged. The Client screamed the word repeatedly. The Provider whipped him shoulders to knees with the Implement until he stopped trying to speak entirely. His struggle for air was audibly torturous. The Client screamed—_

Dimly, Clark thought he should be sadder, he should be more sickened. And he was, he _was_ sickened, but more than that, Clark was appalled. He was outraged. _Furious._ He wished he could walk into that screen and grab that sub, take him away from Ivy— forcibly, if need be. He wished he could grab _her,_ shake some fucking sense into that day-glo red head of hers until something rattled into place. Clark wished— he _wished—  
_

He wished he had the power to catch her, catch everyone _like_ her— every sick, diseased—

"Maniac. _"_ He wished he could catch them, and put them under— not under, put them _away_ , for good. He didn't want to hurt anyone, didn't want to _break_ anyone until _they_ screamed for mercy as they'd done to so many others...

 _Fuck_ Ivy. He stood, trembling with rage. Ruining people, ruining _lives_ and she'd done it all on paper and right under everyone's noses. He was glad she was gone, glad he couldn't run into her somewhere less public than might be good for his temper or his freedom. He'd never wanted to see something horrible happen to someone so badly in his life.

Clark turned the video off hurriedly. Stood in silence, eyes shut tight until the urge to hit something passed. Then he took a short circuit of the room, shaking tensed arms and focusing on the music filtering in from the front room. He sat again, pulling the file in front of him.

Ivy had barely gotten out the last long leaf she'd inserted. And the bitch had still used the vasodilator injection even when the sound couldn't go in.

 _2816158_ had met with her _again_ , before whatever she'd done to be dismissed, in spite of her disgusting breach of safety protocols. According to his file, 2816158 had been with Ivy for a month or so over two years.

 _Two years and only one Orange Flag? That's a_ _no_ _, then._ Someone who'd been through even half of what Clark just witnessed should have had half a dozen Flags, bare minimum. One Flag didn't rate Rehabilitation.

 _'Ivy ignored Assessment Flags or outright exploited them—'_ Natasha's words finally hit home.

_How much more went unreported? How much more would they find tucked away like trophies taken from victims among Ivy's journals._

Just to assuage his own curiosity, Clark scanned the medical section of the Client's profile.

The Client was 42. He'd received his last comprehensive physical approximately seven months ago. He'd not been with another Agency Domme (or Dom) since he'd begun contracting with Ivy. This fact wasn't surprising to Clark, considering the Client's history categorized him as a 'serial monogamist', sexually.

Since his time with Ivy however, he'd had numerous visits to Medical for oddly acute non-specified illnesses or 'playroom' injuries.

This particular Client also had a pattern of reporting significant medical problems via anomalous or bizarre explanations. The Client's skeletal series showed evidence of frequent orthopedic injury in various states of healing, which could not be fully explained by Medical, including the patient's report of a recent fall.

According to Medical, these repetitive injuries involved all the Client's extremities and many ribs, while confirming bone scans similarly showed many areas of increased calcium uptake.

Clark frowned at the papers. This report was indicative of massive bone breakage and continuous healing concurrent with nonstop, unexamined and unexplained injuries.

_Client vehemently refutes being the victim of domestic abuse by home staff._

Yet for some reason, the Client file had not been called into question until now.

Ah, and here was the reason— this Client claimed his injuries were a consequence of his association with an exclusive and seemingly quite intense diversified martial arts club. In one case, he'd even gone so far as to claim that the injuries were 'just scratches' and that he 'couldn't be seen to be a bad sport'.

Another incongruous detail— the client's marked hypersensitivity to plant allergens despite testing negative for all known food allergens. A throwaway note about severe phytochemical reactivity and the need for further testing, which Clark saw had not been authorized. Another buried note alluding to how over twenty of the Client's teeth showed evidence of extensive cosmetic repair, again excused as a common result of sparring mishaps.

Medical personnel had advised that the Client continue his exercise— which the Client claimed he 'simply could not do without'— with a more non-threatening form of physical activity, to lower or limit his stress, and to begin a healthier and more calorie-rich diet. They'd given him various inoculations, planned a follow-up in one year's time, or (as was actually expected) sooner as required.

 _Client denies smoking, drinking or ingesting any illegal substances, though lung scarring calls that into question._ _Client seems blasé about physical ailments and resists attempts to discuss reasons or treatment with Clinic staff._

The Client had thanked them for their efforts, refused consent for all outside-contractor testing and failed to agree with treatment or sign any forms to that effect. Nor had his Domme filed any wellness checks for him.

It seemed as if this Client was doing everything in his power to injure himself, or had a low bar of interest as to whether he was harmed, as opposed to hurt. Furthermore, it seemed this state of affairs had been _allowed_ to continue. This was— 

Not even considering the most recent report in the file, curt and military-concise. Though only Agency identification numbers were used, Clark and Steve used each other often as Scene support— he recognized Steve's terse situation reporting style easily. The details of the report, Steve's Meet last week, at which he'd rejected this client, were spare, though revealing.

> [2816158] XI. _Intake Assessment_
> 
> High verbal response score. Low verbal initiative.
> 
> Positive response to physical contact/handling. Above-average positive response to calm, firm grip. Aggression control index favorable. Skillset Addition: Can ride horses— background supported.
> 
> _Orange Flag_ — disclosed contractually relevant sexual trauma. 
> 
> _Orange Flag_ — trauma response requiring Aftercare and Affirmation. Probable cause: expression of sexual interest from male Dominant. Unknown reaction to same from female Dominant. 
> 
> Aversion/Trauma response to suggestion of outdoor Play. 
> 
> Possible dissociative episodes logged. 
> 
> Possible physical danger logged. 
> 
> _Orange Flag—_ Unreported combat reflexes. 
> 
> _Orange Flag—_ Mood volatile (midline and low). 
> 
> Orange Flag. 
> 
> Orange Flag. 
> 
> Orange Flag.

On the third page, in the narrow space of the form for suggestions— bearing the unwelcome onus of telling others how to do their job:

> Suggest immediate placement with Elite Agent for Long-term Re-Assessment.

Clark slid his glasses off for a moment to rub at his eyes and nose tiredly, then put the file in the "needs therapy" pile. He'd seen enough for today. A soft pulse of light beat against his closed eyelids.

 _The monitor._ His notifications.

> [2816158] XI. :Interview Request 4013

Clark sighed and opened the next file. He should have immediately placed this Client in the 'shit no' pile. If not him, though, then who, considering it hadn't worked out with Steve? Who else would Clark suggest, who else would he trust with a submissive with such glaring trauma? Instead, he slowly moved the file folder to the other side of his desk, and stood before he could convince himself what a bad idea it was.

It was a good time to take a bath, wash the day away. He had an appointment scheduled for 11pm, and still needed to eat, exercise and do another equipment check beforehand. It wouldn't do to let this interfere with his other work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ischemic priapism_ \- Blood flow that's not normal can cause priapism, an erection that lasts for more than 4 hours. The condition is usually painful, and may happen without sexual arousal. If the victim doesn't get treatment right away, it can lead to scarring and permanent erectile dysfunction.
> 
>  _Cavernous aspiration_ \- The first treatment for ischemic priapism is "therapeutic aspiration." The urologist sticks a needle into the side of the penis and draws blood directly from the cavernosa.
> 
>  _Sisal rope_ \- Sisal is a harshly textured natural fiber rope, stiffer than jute rope. It maintains a coarse, hard feel no matter how it's woven. Sisal's hard fibers are extremely unfriendly/abrasive to bare feet and bare skin. It also has excellent resistance to sunlight, very little stretch, and good knot-holding ability. Has tendency to splinter in skin.
> 
>  _Coir rope_ \- Coir rope (or coconut rope) is a harshly-textured natural fibre rope, extracted and woven from the husk of coconuts. _Coir_ is the fibrous material found between the hard, internal shell and the outer coat of a coconut. Easily splinters into skin. Not strong enough for suspension.


	9. Chapter 9

The monthly bar and bitch session. The 'hops to heart', according to Steve. Stoli and suppression sessions, Natasha corrected them both.

"Get outside the headspace for a while, son. Get out of the city, touch roots, see the country — whatever you need." Steve took another swing of his outrageously priced micro-brew and looked at the label with satisfaction. "He's right... That _is_ good. But seriously — take a walk. Take a _break_ , Clark. Meet somebody."

"Yeah, Clark." Natasha's lips curved slightly. Oh, so she thought it was _hilarious_. With an angelic expression that Clark didn't buy for one second, she tilted her head at him, eyes wide. " _Meet_ somebody."

Steve snorted into his beer.

"Nah." Clark grinned. "I've got my whole life to take breaks. Not ready for that yet. Meeting all the bodies I could want right now." Steve was always trying to get him to 'destress, take a break, unload, let somebody in'. It was bullshit. Letting people _in_ was bullshit, and so was the assumption that just because _Steve_ could convince himself he had the perfect life, it followed everybody could. _Or even wanted to chase after it._

"Just sayin'," Steve went on, with that insistently sincere look of his. "You're overworked. Could get more'n a contract."

In the silence that followed, Natasha lifted the three-quarters full bottle on the table and poured a shot of Stoli with steely focus.

"No..." Clark said slowly. "Give me a contract any day. Everything neat and tidy."

"No loose ends," Natasha agreed languidly. "No liabilities."

"No bullshit," Clark added, clinking his bottle to Natasha's glass.

"Hear, hear!" Natasha's eyes glinted. She drank her shot with a vicious air.

Steve nodded and gave an affirmative grunt, but he didn't drink. There was a tension in his shoulders Clark had seen before — Steve wasn't going to let this one go. He got like this sometimes, ready to try and fix the whole damn world and to hell with anyone in his way. Clark eyed him as Steve set his beer on the table and spun it slowly between his hands. He was a good guy. A great friend. But Steve had too much faith in people.

Clark drank his beer and kept his silence, working to dispel the sudden clench that had bloomed in his gut. Natasha's nails tapped the rim of her glass; her eyes flicked between them. When Steve spoke again, she turned to pour herself another Stoli with a soft disbelieving noise.

"Is it money?" Steve's tone had gone sober, and Clark looked over to see him staring back with a solemn sympathy. Steve didn't need to know about his troubles — didn't need to know how for all the cash Clark invested in fixing all the little things that broke down around Ma's farm (decades of can-do, just-for-now fixes catching up to them), something else fell apart or needed to be upgraded every season. Or the lack of profitability in small-scale agricultural ventures. And frankly, Clark wasn't inclined to share, or bring Steve into his mess to make up the difference.

He got paid more than enough to pull up his own britches.

Natasha saluted him again silently with an opaque expression before she tossed back her drink.

"I'm not hurtin'," Clark said, consciously dropping the perfect diction he'd paid good money to be tutored in. He smiled, hard. "Don't be shy now, Cap. You spend a lot of time thinkin' about my money?"

"Oh-ho!" Steve threw both hands up, palms out. _Cease fire._ "Not as much as you wish." He grinned crookedly at Clark, then glanced over at the third member of their group for support. "How 'bout you, Nat?" he said jovially. "What do you say?"

"I say put your dicks away and you mind your own business, Rogers."

Clark covered his mouth as he burst into a huff of laughter.

Ignoring him, Natasha continued. "You're not my CO anymore. Besides," She leaned over and took Steve's half-full bottle, tipping it to her lips unashamedly. "Don't you have enough to worry about?"

Steve gave a big gust of a sigh, and smiled ruefully. "Don't we all," he said, tone grim.

Though the man had never come right out and said so, close-mouthed as he was about his private time, Clark was fairly certain Steve was carrying at least one, maybe even multiple outside contracts. It wasn't a subject they'd ever broached, not just because of Steve's stone-walling but—

 _It's not any of my business_. Right. Not Clark's business and not his right to pry, in any case.

He couldn't imagine how Steve, with all his extracurriculars and paid 'business holidays', was handling the Ivy predicament.

"My roster's up by eight." Natasha's lips barely moved. Her voice was low under the music and hum of conversation around them.

"Jesus, Nat." Steve's eyebrows went up.

She lifted one shoulder in a sharp shrug. "I could use less sleep." She spoke nonchalantly, but knowing her fanaticism for privacy (even by Clark's standards), the mere mention of the subject meant she was deeply concerned.

 _Well_. Clark sighed. "This is cheerful."

"Could be worse," Natasha said, voice flat. "Word is _some_ are being referred to Asgard."

Steve turned to look at her in outrage. "Aw, come on! There's, like, one guy in that place who knows how to do more than just whale on people!"

Clark made a noise, agreeing with Steve's assessment.

She bobbed her eyebrows at him, unsurprised. "Don't judge. Some people want to get whaled on."

"Yeah, you're right. It's just a hell of a thing." Clark brushed a palm over his face and tried to focus on the present.

"You could... Not." Natasha's expression was blank as she turned to her blond companion, betraying no emotion either way.

Steve's brows drew in together. "Not what? Do my part?"

"Everybody knows you have _a situation_ , Steve. It's not a big deal." She winked at Clark, flicker-fast, as Steve grabbed his beer back and took a long, stubborn-jawed swig.

Steve smirked mirthlessly. "I can do my job, Nat. I just worry for the people who can't be helped. Just a damn mess. Hey," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "Weren't you dating that doctor guy?"

"Physicist guy."

Steve stared at her.

Natasha gave him a patient, politely indifferent answering stare. "In the wind."

"Aww, Nat..."

"What?" Her eyes laughed. "Too clingy. I'm over it." Her head tipped in a shake. "I'll just keep Barton. At least he's housebroken."

The mouthful of beer Clark had just taken in threatened to go one of two wrong ways, and he swallowed hard to force it down as he bent in silent laughter. "Harsh."

"And yet true," she said, slight curve to her lips.

The smile faded as Natasha focused over Clark's shoulder. Steve shifted slightly in his chair.

"Excuse me," said a light tenor from Clark's left.

He straightened, shoulders tense. Turned... To see Hal, a well-known, well-dressed submissive Provider who he usually saw sporting a sardonic smile. Clark settled more easily into his chair.

Today though, he looked somber. "Hey! What a month, huh?"

"Tell me about it," Clark invited. "Hey, Jade. How's it going?"

Hal's hand waved in the air in a see-saw motion. "Eh. It goes, Supes. 'Maker. Captain, sir." He traded nods with Natasha and offered Steve an odd sort of bow. “Look, I’m headed out, but I got pulled in to help with some of those files from Ivy’s greenhouse, so I’ve got an idea of how much shit has hit the fan here.” He shook his head in a commiserating manner. "Just wanna say I don't envy you Doms your workload at the moment. If any of you ever need support... I'm there. Whole lot of us willing to step up."

"Uh..." Clark glanced at his companions, then back to Hal. "Thanks, I'll keep you in mind."

"Sounds good, Jade," Steve said approvingly. "Could always use more hands on deck."

Natasha's head tilted in his direction, then she saluted Hal with her glass. "Moldavite."

Hal allowed a small grin to escape at the use of his formal Agency handle. With another small nod, Hal took one precise step back, eyes on Steve, before turning to walk in the general direction of the doors.

Clark watched the submissive Provider's carefree stroll until he was obscured by other patrons. He turned to face his friends, curiosity itching. "Well, I think that was nice of him," he said after a moment.

Steve's eyes squinted as he smirked. "That's 'cause you never had him. Kid's a brat. Damn near wore out my crop arm."

Natasha leaned on her elbow, eyes fixed on Hal's receding back. "That ass, though," she said contemplatively. "Steve _likes_ brats," she added, twitching an eyebrow suggestively at the uncharacteristic red leather bracelet Steve had been suspiciously never seen without for the past year or so.

Clark followed her gaze, watched the gold stitching wink under the lounge lights, and smirked.

"I didn't say it was a problem," Steve deadpanned.

Clark shook his head. He took another sip of beer, only half-listening to his friends' familiar bickering and let himself relax. Just for a moment.

_Life could be worse._

After his laughable failure to secure a contract with Edge— _Steve—_ Bruce was forced to re-examine the splash for Provider 318635 _._ Obviously the stringent security measures meant he couldn't just _ask_ someone about 318635 by name, but there was always good chatter in the Agency App Forums, and every bit of juicy information that could be shared without exposing participants was grist for the rumor mill. 318635 _'s_ clients, whoever they were, kept unusually mum in pub-channels.

If the buzz could be believed, _318635's_ nickname at the Agency was Mr.S. The subs employed at the Agency though, referred to _318635_ as 'Superdom' from their in-house training sessions. He had a reputation for maintaining calm and for how in control he always was, even while going above and beyond to ensure the wellbeing of subs in his care. For making suspension feel like flying, while making it look magical and effortless to spectators.

Mr.S was ranked as Elite, and that came with a high price tag. He usually only took on high-earning clients. Here and there, Bruce found clues--digital whispers and indications of a highly circumspect selection process, of an almost fanatical caution in who _318635_ 'took on'.

But search as he might, Bruce could find no information about what Mr.S's selection process actually entailed, how he managed his client stable (if he even had one), or what type of activity or approach might give Bruce an advantage over any other subs requesting _318635's_ attention.

The Dom they called 'Superdom' was no veteran and his file had no evidence of combat training. His scores though, were optimal. His skillset was varied and he was consistently rated as highly competent, according to Agency rankings. Like the Captain, he also had top ratings in his specializations.

 _Posture bondage, breathplay, CBT, light to heavy marking and impact play (implement and bare hand), prostate milking, extreme voyeurism, exhibitionism, play piercing —_ it was a practical wonderland of deviance. _Restraint, sensory deprivation, needle play, electrical play, objectification, breath control, branding... enemas, humiliation play, both advanced Western-style ropework and intermediate Shibari..._

There were more esoteric disciplines too, things Bruce had never considered, like 'Puppy play' and 'Pony play'. Foot bondage ( _for men?_ ) and... _Financial_ Domination _? Bestiality Fantasy? Oviposition—_ well, he damn sure knew what that was, at least. But what was 'Lifestyle Maintenance'?

 _Full Suspension available with proper training only._ Bruce traced the words, burning with curiosity and greed. Mistress' ropes had always chafed and itched terribly, leaving deep grooves impressed into his wrists, his hips... ( _his neck)_.

An Agency Provisional contract was the community equivalent of a protective kiddie-waiver. It covered _one_ 'limited-equipment session of no longer than three hours', ordinarily. Because of the mitigating circumstances however, _this_ particular Provisional contract authorized full Services if requested and deemed necessary, pending further Service negotiation (post initial meeting) by the 'administering Provider'.

There was no way he'd get everything he needed from one session, or even five, no matter how full Service they were.

He printed and signed the damn Contract anyway; Waynes didn't gamble with the best offer left on the table.

The drive to the Agency was nerve-wracking this time, too loud and fraught with chances to give his rage an outlet.

His request to file his (hastily written) Provisional Contract so Services could be Provided as soon as possible was met with swiftly covered horror from his receiving Facilitator.

Recovering her poise, she curtly informed him,"The Agency's Elite rank do _not_ do business that way."

"I'm sorry," Bruce managed after a moment, spine straightening against the consternation that made him want to sink into the floor. "I didn't realize."

_You said you were here to support me, goddamn it!_

"Only a Provider can initiate any binding Contract process, Mr Wayne," she said, noticeably softer. The courtesy of her tone did nothing to blunt the pity in her eyes. Or maybe it wasn't pity— maybe, Bruce thought, she was just tired of babysitting a spoiled effete brat who couldn't even manage to get himself controlled properly. He refused to look away.

She watched him, her features downturned, before she seemed to come to a decision. Turning to her monitor, she began to type. "But if you are determined, you can file a... Call it an anonymous consent waiver. The Provider is still not obligated to provide to you any Service or consideration thereof beyond their own judgment."

He wanted nothing more than to sit and process the gratitude expanding in his chest. He wanted to shout. Instead, Bruce tightened his clasped hands between his knees and gave her a steady nod. "I understand."

The Preemptive Consent Contract form was a rarely used one, judging by the look of concentration of the Agent's face as she submitted it to his file.

> ' _I, 2816158, hereby of my own free will, being of sound mind, and in good faith, consent to basic Services as outlined below to be rendered by 318635 during my next Provisional Contract with the Agency. Signed on this date...'_

Blah, blah, blah.

Bruce had heard of this type of 'waiver' — it came with a stigma, the sort necessitated by clients who wanted things like anonymous extra participants in exhibitionism, heavy grappling rape reconstruction fantasies or gangbangs...

It was doubly shaming, to be reduced to this after over a year spent building rapport with Mistress Ivy in a regulated, high-ranking contract schedule. 


	10. Chapter 10

> **_318635_ ** _: Use my Agency IM. Do the medical tests. The Agency has my orders._ _  
>   
>  _

The Agency Facilitator relayed orders for a full physical, with STD and STI panel, along with a 12-panel drug test even before they met. Mr.S made no secret that it was at his request, and the bluntness of his words, the absence of an attempt to sweeten the command so thinly veiled as a request, was invigorating. The knowledge that he was acting under orders, getting this done for someone who'd control him, _who was already in control of him,_ got him through the poking and prodding with a tranquil mind.

> _Nihili,_
> 
> _Terms satisfactory. Extension negotiable. Provisional contracts come with caveats._
> 
> **Mr.S  
>  **

His profile —once Bruce was allowed access— proved assertive, if a touch pithy and overly sentimental. Bruce gave it a cursory scan— something about 'ripping away masks & constructed selves, and becoming who we truly are.' Sure. _Fine, whatever._

Whatever worked.

His initial response however, wasn't patronizing or overly sympathetic. _Unexpected._ He seemed eager to meet as quickly as possible. _Even better._

> _Greetings. May I speak?_
> 
> **Nihili**

The second-level access Mr.S granted Bruce sent his preferred contact information. In return, Bruce took the drive to the Agency and received the signed-for delivery of a single black and white photograph. He'd studied it for his allotted time until the stern-faced Facilitator whisked it away from him.

 _Professional without looking staged_ , is Bruce's first fleeting thought. He shelves the memory, to examine later.

An impression of short dark hair, even-toned skin. A strong jaw. Finely made round-rimmed black glasses and black on black collar, tie and jacket. Unlike most Provider file photos, Mr.S didn't gaze out at the viewer. He was turned slightly aside, the picture capturing the straight line of his shoulder and back, his face in three-quarter profile, his attention arrested by an object outside of frame. There was a hardness to the set of his jaw, a visible tension in the line of his upper cheek, but his eyes seemed filled with a deeper emotion.

Possibly, it was compassion.

_Probably unconventional orbital alignment._

> _Communication necessary for correspondence, Nihili. Have received notification of file access. If acceptable, proceed to Records review process._
> 
> **Mr.S**

> _Acceptable and understood._
> 
> **Nihili**

Mr.S was handsome, and though he wore only the impression of a smile, he had kind eyes. Too kind — nearly enough to make Bruce panic and cancel their appointment. But if he rejected his remaining best chance, then where would Bruce be?

Back in the streets, chasing after crime and the Rankless until one or the other drove him to do something unforgivable.

 _Something_ else _unforgivable._

_No.  
_

Mr.S was physically impressive. Broad shoulders, thick thighs... Big hands, and plenty of what looked like hard-working muscle — strong enough to hurt Bruce. Safe enough to hold him down. Mr.S also didn't engage in sex with clients regularly, and made specific note of it in his profile. _Denied._ Even the possibility of Bruce succumbing to weakness denied. Having what Bruce wanted so close yet unattainable — he didn't deserve it anyway.

> _Nihili_ **,**
> 
> _Med.Rec. reviewed. I appreciate your consent. Now that the details are in order, I'd like to meet for breakfast._
> 
> **Mr.S**

> _Please advise. Location and time?_
> 
> **Nihili**

Bruce rose to meet 'the Superdom' at five on a quiet Tuesday morning.

He'd set the reservation for nine, allowing for early commuter traffic. His credit information had been sent the day before, to avoid the awkwardness of the bill when it came.

> _I can understand long work hours. Propose an alternative._
> 
> **Mr.S**

Though brunch was what they'd agreed upon, the short-lived ' _I'd like to meet for breakfast_ ' from Mr.S kept repeating across his inner eye, and if all went well Bruce would like a headstart on meeting that expectation. The restaurant Mr.S named was lowkey enough to suit Bruce, but the quality of fare and luxuriance left a lot to be desired. Not particularly even a question of quality when you got down to it; this was a question of _ambiance._ He was paying--of course he was, that was all a part of the arrangement with the Agency.

Perhaps Bruce could win some points by taking the initiative to liven the atmosphere up a bit. 

Perhaps this was the first test.

Five star catering wasn't much of a stretch— surely the people who worked there would appreciate well-paid time off. The decor could be redone overnight and anyone in the restaurant would have the benefit of visiting the house on a damn good day.

Signing the slips for the work was a relief.

_Everything must go perfectly._

> _Nihili,_
> 
> _Is this a recent photograph? Have you changed anything? Hair dye, tanning, veneers?_
> 
> **Mr.S**

> _Confirm current photograph on file taken four months ago. Advise_ _no_ _major changes have been made._
> 
> **Nihili**

The pic on file was still valid. Perhaps there was a touch more grey in Bruce's hair, perhaps a bit more subdermal bruising from sleepless nights these past weeks. He'd lost no muscle mass or physical ability, had gained no illnesses or debilitating injuries to speak of. No, Bruce hadn't made any significant changes.

> _Don't_ _._
> 
> **Mr.S**

' _Don't'?_

Don't get mud-scrubbed down to within an inch of his life? Don't get a spa treatment? Don't cover the bags under his eyes; don't get his hair trimmed and silk-rinsed? Don't see his dentist for the emergency cleaning he'd already scheduled? No mani-pedi for his abused nail-beds that were sure to be an eyesore? No aloe and passionfruit-lemon face peel to wipe a few lines smooth? And Jesus, no anal bleaching?

He'd never had much love for the process — it was uncomfortable, messy and emasculating. Which was, he knew, exactly why Mistress Ivy had laughed every time she parted his cheeks to see the evidence. And with every step Bruce took, he'd been reminded that this part of him was no longer his own, that even in her absence, Mistress touched him in the most private ways.

He'd become accustomed to the routine — had a standing appointment for 'undercarriage and staff post' wax treatment (as well as a private home regimen Mistress had gifted him). She'd preferred to have him bleach himself, at dusk and dawn, for the three days preceding each appointment. He'd missed the last installment, in his worry over Mistress' location.

He missed the constant burn and chafe on the rim of his asshole and between his cheeks, too. The hair grew in thick, stubble scraping his inner thighs and making his balls and cleft itch.

But no— sight unseen, Mr.S asked for what no one had ever truly been interested in: Bruce _au naturale._

Of all the things Bruce thought he might find truly humiliating, the thought of a Dom who intended to _use_ him, seeing unsightly hairs or skin discoloration was at the bottom of the list.

Until just now.

> _Affirmative. Reservation logged and verification copies sent._
> 
> **Nihili**

> _9AM tomorrow, then. Until we meet._
> 
> **Mr.S**

Lack of enthusiasm in print was not in of itself a reason to worry— print was notoriously an unreliable conveyance for emotional subtext. Mr.S had been unfailingly polite in all his messages and there was no real reason to think Bruce had already made a mistake but... It worried Bruce.

He'd given himself two hours to prepare and one to reach the location. Hopefully enough time to make a good impression, to _impress_ this Dom after what had happened with the Captain. Bruce didn't have any more chances to get it wrong— he _needed_ Mr.S to find him worthy, see something in him worth the trouble.

Bruce had misjudged with Edge, he could see that now. He'd expected the same sort of client hunger he'd become accustomed to from his years with lower-Ranked Providers, and the ubiquitous Rankless Providers that charged a median price for quick, dirty satisfaction.

Ivy... _Mistress_ Ivy had been his highest ranked Domme, and she had approached _him_ , as he walked around studying the displays at his first exhibition mixer.

He should have realized there would be more to a review with a Dom in the Elite Service class than showing up and looking pretty. He should have realized his two options would have their own expectations for _him_ to meet — not in time, or once he'd become accustomed to them, but immediately.

He eyed his reflection distrustfully, regardless.

 _No hair dye, then. No changes._ He'd gotten the mani-pedi anyway — it was good for his nerves, and his hands were well-kept, for posterity, in that file photograph.

It wasn't _really_ a change.

Now— What was he going to wear?


	11. Chapter 11

Nine in the morning was earlier than Bruce liked to even consider being seen in public usually, but still. It was vulgar to start a civilized brunch past twelve.

His messages contained a series of photos, time-stamped at 6:59AM--the work crew had finished the dining room renovation. Just in time for the kitchen to finish prep and open their doors to the early morning rush. 

Everything was going according to schedule.

The possible outcome was too strong a draw for his usual Brucie game — he arrived ahead of schedule and stepped into the reception area of the restaurant at exactly 8:40.

He scanned the vestibule once, then again as the bell above the door rang merrily. The reservation desk was directly ahead; to his right was a well-stocked side bar with a few singletons already occupying stools. Two very well-dressed women, heels high and hair sleek with not a strand out of place, were already sipping cocktails and chattering with abandon. A man, good shoes, turned to the side, occupied with his phone and a small writing pad. To his left, a couple whispered just inside the door, with the obliviousness of the newly attached.

Dotted about the room were other customers, sipping drinks as they waited for their tables or in the unlikely hope of an abandoned reservation. There were more than a few digital shutter clicks as Bruce made his way towards the desk. He maintained a pleasantly neutral expression and scanned the space again. The man sitting alone at the bar, slid his phone into his jacket pocket and turned to face the door.

_It's him._

The black and white photograph, striking as it had been, had done him an injustice.

Eyes of blazing blue, shielded behind reflective glass. Mr. S didn't bother to give him even a casual up and down —as if he'd already seen it all— before his lips turned up into an unassuming, open smile. His gaze stayed firmly on Bruce's as he approached the desk.

Bruce realized he'd held eye contact for far longer than intended or experience advised. He didn't speak, mostly because it was bad form for him to presume to speak before being spoken to. Partially, because he wasn't entirely certain what the best thing to say would be. But the man— and it _was_ Mr.S, there wasn't any mistake, with that bone structure— wrote something on a small pad in his hand, pocketed it and didn't look his way again.

_Not the most auspicious sign._

Bruce gave his card to the Host and handed off his coat before indicating he was awaiting his guest's arrival. The routine was settling.

He'd been seen. He'd been acknowledged. Bruce was well-used to temperament tests by now. He settled himself into a modified parade rest, hands folded neatly in front of him, ignoring the available seating (and the whispers around him). He waited patiently, eyes on the wall to the left of Mr.S's position.

At 8:57, Mr.S stood and turned to Bruce.

8:59. His handshake was confident and unpretentious, a solid one-pump clasp. He didn't press his way into Bruce's space, didn't squeeze or grind Bruce's hand like some had been known to do. Didn't hold overlong or loom. There was something about a tall man, a _big_ man, that made a certain kind of aspiring Dominant overreach, Bruce had learned.

Not this one.

"Kent," Mr.S said firmly in a mellow baritone. "Clark Kent."

"Your pardon please — I'm not aware of how you'd like to be addressed."

Kent smiled at that; just a small lift at the corner of his lips. His shoulders released tension that hadn't been apparent until it was gone. "Kent or Sir will be fine, for now."

"It's an honor to meet you, Sir. My given name is Bruce."

Sir nodded fractionally in acknowledgement and turned casually to face the restaurant proper, dismissive without being disdainful; taking the lead as his due. This was signal enough for the host to materialize and gesture a path to their reserved table.

Privilege... Well, it had its privileges.

They were led to a lone table, rather spacious for two but not so large conversation would have to be loud enough that it could be overheard. Thirty feet of empty space in either direction further ensured their relative privacy. Beyond this no-man's land, the lesser elite of Gotham pretended the insult of being denied extra space did not sting; they were, after all, being allowed to witness a private meeting of their prince. Bruce had purchased this seating arrangement for however long they might choose to stay.

Sir's gaze swept from one end of the room to the other slowly. He eyed the sharp division of tables and restaurant clientele, then he followed the host further into the room with lips pressed into a flat line.

Bruce's chest became tight, his mouth leeched of moisture. If this was an annoyance, then the fresh exotic flowers and gold-leaf seating cards on the hand-embroidered tablecloth were most likely unwelcome, as well.

They were shown their seats and Bruce stood a moment longer than strictly necessary. He stalled, and Sir had settled into his seat before Bruce moved to take his own.

Their server placed their water glasses, introduced himself as 'Craig', handed off the menus with a patter of the Day's Special that Bruce barely caught, then turned to _Bruce_ and asked,

"A bottle of the usual, sir?"

With careful stillness, Bruce set his menu down, darting a glance at Sir.

The Dom watched him openly, offering no suggestion or hint of his thoughts. He waited, questioning eyebrows raised, along with the server.

Bruce slid his hands onto his thighs, palms down and relaxed his shoulders. He smiled, a Wayne smile.

"My guest would like to order first, thank you," he said evenly. His tablemate's eyes were thoughtful on him. Bruce fought the urge to bow down and bowed his head slightly instead.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Of course, Mr Wayne!" Craig pivoted smoothly. "Sir, what would you like this morning?" His voice was pert and overly helpful, for this hour of the day.

"What's the usual?" Sir's tone was casual. Dangerously _neutral._

Bruce swallowed once, to clear the dryness from his throat, and stared fixedly at Sir's left shoulder. "Pierre Péters Les Chetillons. I have a bottle, by myself." _Make an ass of myself. Once or four times a year._ "Outside, usually. It's—" He was babbling. "A bit of a tradition." A celebration really, and one he usually partook in alone. A celebration that sounded puerile and wasteful, that served no purpose other than to deaden him to memories better left unremembered. Pompous and insensitive, perhaps, to someone not born to the leisure class?

_Spoiled?_

Bruce raised his chin sharply, but kept his gaze level as guilt seared him. Sir knew what he was; _everyone_ knew what he was. If this Dom had a hardon for straight-laced play, then goodbye to the stimulants and poppers Mistress preferred and it was again, only what Bruce deserved. She'd given them to him, after all, because he was weak. No need for him to be defensive.There wasn't any need for him to show shame over it.

Not publicly, at least.

Sir's regard lanced him. Keeping still took up all of Bruce's concentration while Sir stared. "I see," he said finally. Then he tilted his head to look at their server and his entire demeanor changed with one smile.

Of course Craig was waiting patiently--this wasn't the sort of establishment that employed servers who pressed or rushed guests paying top-dollar per plate. "Would you like a complimentary Apple Cider mimosa this morning?" he chirped.

"No alcohol," Sir said. _That answered that question._ Bruce might bristle at the casual dismissal any other time, but then, he _had_ signed the Preemptive… "And the eggs over easy, please. Carafe of orange juice, coffee with cream, potatoes au gratin—"

_I didn't realize any of that was on this menu._ _  
_

Bruce let his menu, held in both hands, lay against his side of the table. Sir was calmly ordering from the _old_ menu. The original menu.

Not one of the entrees Bruce had painstakingly agreed to with the chef he'd hired for the day. Not one amuse bouche or clever tartare.

 _Another mistake._ Another failure.

As Sir began his simple but hearty order, Bruce was struck by the softness of his clothing, the hardness of his hands. Working hands, with calluses Bruce could see and would hopefully soon feel. Strong hands, that could mold him--remake him into something better.

None of it deserved, none of it _earned._ The conversation swirled around him, no matter how hard Bruce concentrated. A tingle of awareness, a flicker in his peripheral vision drawing his attention—

Craig cheer was relentless. "Would you like to try the Heritage Berkshire bacon, sir? Fresh in today and cut farm-thick?" Too annoying, too _close_ to Bruce. Why, it would barely take any effort at all, to--

"What do you think, Bruce?"

—Bruce memorized the moment, the sensations, the movements around him, so he could pull them up later and reanalyze it all—

"Bruce," Mr. Kent, Mr.S, _Sir_ said.

He jerked, shoulders rising before he got himself under control. "Please excuse this— The lapse. Yes, sir. The Tamworth is excellent." The room blurred.

"Then that's what I'll have," Sir said. And then the server— _Craig,_ looked to Bruce.

Who had yet to even open his menu.

Sir frowned slightly. "Would you like me to order for you?"

 _'I don't usually eat breakfast.'_ That was sure to go over like jeans at a white-tie function. Would Sir be pleased to hear Bruce evince an opinion or would he be angry with Bruce for being noncompliant?

"Thank you, Sir." It was skirting the edge of insolence, an answer that was no answer. Too many eyes on them, too many words catching his ears, his name, his company, fuck, his head—

Bruce's stomach roiled, clenching on nothing. He felt vaguely ill.

Sir cocked his head at Bruce, reached over, telegraphing the move and handed both menus off to Craig absently.

"The spinach-gruyere quiche, or the smoked salmon and eggs salad with baguette?"

The new menu, now— a selection of Bruce's choices. 

"Sir, either—" _As it pleases._ Bruce bit the inside of his cheek. "With thanks," he managed, through the tide of nausea. To eat, in front of a Dom... was against his training, a shameful excess of personal desire, a shameful concession to his own body's needs.

"Quiche looks good," Sir said contemplatively. "Coffee?" he continued, as if asking himself. Bruce dipped his chin slightly. Sir nodded to himself. "Yes, coffee. We'll have that, Craig, thanks - that's all. Leave the pitcher, please."

The waiter gave a nervous laugh. "Actually sirs, you seem to be the only ones in my section at the moment." He smiled brightly. "So I can just put these orders in and come back to—"

"No," Sir said, tone low and calm. "The extended table service won't be necessary. Thank you. We'll make do until the food's ready."

The boy dithered for another moment before setting the water pitcher down in the center of the table. "No problem! I'll take care of this right away."

From his periphery, Bruce watched carefully as Sir ran a hand over the (upgraded, doubtlessly well-priced) new setting plates. A sigh floated across the table. _Sir didn't like what Bruce had done._ He tensed involuntarily and waited, expecting to be chastised for his presumption.

"So it's nicer out today in town than I thought it'd be," Sir said after a moment. "We picked a good day. Warm, good wind up. Reminds me of out west."

Sir liked warm sunlight, and a brisk wind. Sir was from the west; Bruce logged it dutifully as information he might be called on to relay back later. Mistress Ivy had delighted in dropping small pieces of trivial information into their engagements, only to quiz him on them hours or in several notable cases, even weeks later.

"Had business earlier," Sir continued. "It's always strange, crossing the Bay anymore, even after so long in Gotham." Another three seconds of silence. "Always seems sunnier in Metropolis, somehow. After living on this side of the water, I almost only notice the cold when it's gone."

When his companion stopped speaking, Bruce felt pinned under observation— whether it was a glare or something less precarious, he couldn't tell. Not without breaking several rules he'd paid in blood and skin before he'd learned.

Sir moved— too fast, hand reaching across the table. Bruce froze, heart pounding.

 _Breathe_ . _**Breathe** . _

Hand on the water pitcher's handle, Sir paused a moment, head cocked.and Bruce blinked back into focus, slightly startled to find he was not yet bleeding from Mistress' favored bright red, pointed acrylic nails.

"It's funny to think it's been raining for...what, almost a week straight, now?" Smoothly, Sir retrieved the pitcher and poured a glass of water. "I prefer to serve myself," he explained, tone quiet with something Bruce could not identify.

He slid the pitcher back onto the table between them, movements much slower than he'd begun.

Mortification burned Bruce. _Failure._ But surely he had to say something? Not sit here staring at his hands, not sit here as if he were... as if he were _ignoring_ Sir.

The problem was solved for him when Sir mercifully asked an actual question. 'So what do you think? Is it the cold front? The condensation?" Sir laughed lightly. "I'm afraid I don't follow the weather report as much as I should."

"It's—" Bruce cleared his dry throat. "The Bay, sir."

His eyes flicked up once, just enough to see how his words were received. Sir's expression was polite. _Interest?_ Emboldened, Bruce twitched his mouth in thought. The recent confluence of storm systems and crosswinds had resulted, predictably enough, in a vast thunderstorm that had simulated something of a lake effects storm. It had sat over Gotham for... now that Bruce thought of it, yes... it _had_ been a week.

He was stalling. He knew the answer and Bruce was _stalling_ , afraid to give the truth and be punished for the conceit of assuming to know more than his Dominant. Mistress...

Mistress had—

In a place like this, she would have— 

"Air currents and humidity," he said finally, unable to maintain silence. "Condensation from the... arctic blast last month, Sir."

"Huh. Remarkable!" And Sir did, indeed sound— astoundingly enough— entirely absorbed. "I don't pay much attention to the weather unless it's good. My loss, I suppose. You seem to have a handle on it." Sir tapped his glass with one finger. 

What was there to even say to that? There was no respectful response Bruce could give without casting aspersions on either Sir's sensibilities or Sir's habits.

Bruce settled for a muted, "I do, Sir."

It seemed to have been the right response; the Dominant continued to speak, pausing every so often. It was...not easy, but acceptable to sit and let the lilting pace of Sir's speech thrum through him. 

Sir's voice was rich, rumbling out into the space around them, surrounding Bruce, quiet and pervasive. It was pleasant, dark smoke that coiled around and into Bruce's consciousness, into his head... wiping away the clatter and grating attentions of the rest of the restaurant. Giving him a steady anchor... _Please, please let it be steady_. Restful and varied just enough to avoid any hint of a monotone. Sir was practised at speaking, Bruce saw— adept at this insidiously pacifying technique. 

"And the traffic wasn't so bad, since they repaired the South Bridge, but there's something about this time of year, you know. Good weather. Warm enough for walking, cool enough for a jacket—"

Was this how Mr. S would conquer Bruce's demons? With low, certain words and good humor? With this intangible intensity that Sir seemed to carry on his shoulders, that seemed to stream out around him, wrapping the both of them, shielding from the mundanity and audacious stares of passers-by? Bruce knew he should excuse himself. He knew this was not what he deserved.

"Although I have to admit, there's something to be said for the aesthetic in these parts, present company included."

But oh, he _craved_ it, suddenly. To be treated as an old and dear acquaintance in public, to be handled with a sense of...of care. 

_Wait—_

"Thank you, Sir," Bruce responded automatically, a beat too late. Was that a compliment? But Bruce had performed no service, had done nothing to be commended for yet.

Was it a comment of Bruce's perceived functionality? His size? His clothing choices? Perhaps Sir actually _did_ approve of Bruce showing up and obviously having taken care with his wardrobe. 

It was dangerous, to want. Dangerous and impossible.

Sir was _appealing_ , with his midnight curls, his strong aquiline features, the deep dimples Bruce had glimpsed when he smiled— yes, even with his obviously well-worn suit and glasses. His bearing made them negligible considerations. And the manner in which he was speaking so casually this way, so... equitably to Bruce. 

Now Sir had fallen silent, and as tempting as it was to consider it a comfortable silence, Bruce could not afford to assume. He had to speak! He had to—

What should he—

"The flowers... always grow higher after the storms." He clenched his hands together savagely in his lap. "This time of year, Sir."

He risked a fast glance upwards, the level of Sir's tie knot. 

Sir's mouth was a line, but not a hard one. His jaw was relaxed; his lips pursed slightly and Bruce saw Sir nod once. Bruce looked away, palms slick.

"You're right. I'd never put two and two together, but I suppose that must be why. Leave it to a native to know the real score." His voice was light and conversational. "Gives us something nice to look forward to. You have an interest in botany?"

Inclining his head in an agreeable nod, Bruce tried hard not to think of where that interest had taken him. 

"Horticulture, yes Sir. I—" Mistress Ivy had always mocked his botanical interests as 'low-brow'. 'Elitist' and 'small-minded'. Bruce had preferred to cultivate decorative plants, before his time with her. She had taken great pleasure in showing Bruce how even the most innocuous plants in his collections could be used to cause pain. She—

"Sunflowers are a personal favorite of mine," Sir said, interrupting the chill of remembrance. "They always cheer me up. How about you?"

Yes, speaking as if they were equals... Making a strange warmth bubble up into Bruce's gut with his reassuring timbre and unhurried cadence. Making Bruce feel...

"Tulips," Bruce said without thinking. "Sir. Heirloom blooms and hybrids. Rosemary blossoms."

Bruce had _no right_.

He ground his teeth silently and chastised _himself._ They were in _public;_ Sir was being respectable— no more, no less. Bruce was here for one reason, and one reason only. He couldn't afford to be unwary, to be _foolish_ about this or Sir's interest. 

_His interest is strictly business._

Of course it was. 

_This is a test— an assessment._

Of _course_ it was... and it was better that Bruce remember that— instead of wallowing in this shameful display of indulgence _with Sir right in front of him—_ and pay attention.

"Hm. Rosemary's one we have in common. That's good to know. So many essential oils to choose from, to help facilitate a sense of relaxation. Rosemary, orange peel, fresh mint—"

"Cardamom," floated out of Bruce's lips without his permission. He stilled, acutely aware of the rest of the restaurant and the sudden focus from across the table. "Sir," he pushed out, tensed for the command to lean closer, to put himself within reach of a swift reprisal.

"That's a good one too," Sir replied slowly. He made no move towards Bruce; his hands were motionless for a moment as he spoke. "Not usual... but potent."

Sir's accent wanted to be Metropolitan, but here and there a diphthong betrayed him— something Midwest ...no. Something Mid _land._

 _There—_ when he'd said 'con- _din-_ sation _'. Again,_ when Sir said 'att- _in-_ tion. Tiny differences in inflection, glaring to Bruce's ear. 

_And that 'anymore', so casually thrown in._ _Hm._

Sir was _from_ the Midwest. Yes, definitely the Midwest...Ohioan, perhaps or...no, closer to Iowan or Kansan. Possibly Nebraskan?

After a few minutes, he lapsed into silence, finger tapping distinctly on the rim of his glass. 

"This might sound a little strange, but all this..." Sir's hand moved slightly, an open but reserved gesture at their surroundings. "Reminds me of _The School of Essential Ingredients._ Both of us here, ready to dig into something new. Enjoying a meal, anticipating something more." Sir paused. "Erica Bauermeister. Have you read it?"

Oh. _A book._ Bruce smoothed his expression to keep the frown from surfacing.

"I..." He thought fiercely. Would his answer be acceptable? "Don't read much. Fiction."

Sir hummed quietly. "What was the last thing you read?"

Bruce forced his muscles to calm, doing his best to look relaxed as he answered. "Catalogs mostly, Sir. There was this great one about free-climbing in Maracaibo— or was it Cabo? So much travel, so little—" He glanced up to gauge how his words were being received.

Sir's mouth was tight at the corners. Not yet a frown, but definitely not pleased. He took a sip of his waiting water glass and stared at it, brow creased, before looking back to Bruce.

_Definitely disappointed._

Definitely disappointed _with Bruce_.

"Erwin Kreyszig," Bruce exhaled as he abandoned the gloss of stupidity.

"Oh?" Sir leaned forward again. _Interest._ "A favourite author?" 

Stealing a glimpse while inclining his head, Bruce saw Mr. S's eyebrows rise fractionally before he looked back down to the tablecloth. 

"This is progress," Sir said. "Care to elaborate?"

"I... _Advanced Mathematics Engineering_ , Sir," Bruce whispered.

There was a heavy silence from across the table. Sir's hand pressed the table's top, his nails buffed and blunt. "Nonfiction, indeed," he mused. He leaned over and carefully pushed the second water glass closer to Bruce. "What is it you like most about the book?"

"His works on the practical applications of differential equations," Bruce said, feeling an odd weightlessness. "And of course, linear algebra through proper consideration of partial derivatives was invaluable to me. Sir."

Sir said nothing for a breath. Then,

"Of course," he said. "It's a bit out of my wheelhouse, but it sounds fascinating. Engineering and me never quite got along in shop class." Sir made a soft sound that Bruce realized afterwards has been a laugh as he rested both elbows on the table, leaning further in. "I'm intrigued, though. If you don't mind me asking, Bruce, what do you do for fun?"

"Exercise, S—"

" _Well_ , _here we are_ sirs!" Craig's return to the tableside was abrupt, on a wave of energetic proficiency. His interruption was much more invasive, this iteration. "Breakfast has arrived. Just let me get this set up for you—"

Bruce straightened his posture and smoothed his suit jacket idly and his expression, chin up. The corner of Sir's lips turned down, a brief movement before he too leaned back and smiled at their server. 

"You sure do have timing," he said without a trace of mockery in his tone. "Kitchen's fast today."

"We have a little extra help today," Craig replied, teeth too bright. 

Sir nodded amiably. "Let's see what we got." 

Their meals were laid out briskly, Craig prattling the whole time. Much of the obligatory sides didn't fit the table; Craig helpfully erected his tray at tableside.

"Oh-kay, syrup and butter. Compote for you, sir and cream. Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?" He hovered beside them, a lanky bundle of energy and unwanted attention. 

Sir was not interested in eating alone; it was clear from the expectant light in his eyes as he viewed the food at table and Bruce.

"All this looks great,actually," Sir said, with another of those smiles for Craig. "I think we'll be fine for a bit - no need to worry about us." A clear dismissal, with an understood and subtle request not to interrupt unless summoned. He looked back to Bruce eagerly. "Better eat up before it gets cold."

Even such a simple direction to follow eased Bruce's tension. Bruce waited until Sir's napkin was in his lap before touching his own. He touched his silverware after, took his first bite after, barely tasting the five-star quiche he'd had prepared.

Bruce focused on his dishware— on the perfect triangle that formed his knife and fork. Every move was deliberate and as graceful as he could manage, while still diverting most of his attention to his table partner.

He paced himself, bent his head and kept his back straight. Concentrated on achieving precision in his angled cuts of quiche. The weight of Sir's attention was heavy on him, Bruce was being _seen_. He was meeting Sir's requirement. It eased the gnawing ache inside, enough that Bruce was able to maintain his façade of calm.

Each bite was small and meticulous. He was certain that Sir would not welcome any messes at table. Bruce kept his eyes firmly lowered. _Be neat, be pleasant to look on. Minimal eye contact._

But what if Bruce's refusal to meet Sir's eyes was what had torpedoed his Interview with Edge?

He had to try, he had to step up, be _more._ So Bruce steeled himself and raised just his eyes. First from the plate to Sir's hands— one fork, no knife, American-style. Then to Sir's shirt buttons. 

Finally, Bruce raised his sightline cautiously to meet Sir's. Had he thought Sir was handsome?

Sir was _— is **very** handsome. _

He tried to make eye contact, but Sir shifted, just a hair forward and it— He couldn't. He _couldn't_.

_Arrogant. Unworthy. Pathetic._

Bruce's pulse beat in his ears and he jerked his gaze back down to his plate. The uncertainty of his position inflamed his anxiety higher.

Bruce wasn't worth much, but the _value_ of who he is had never been lost on him. On the street, as Brucie, free of protocol and expectation he can't ignore, Bruce could easily look anyone in the eye and convince them he was their equal, that he was clean and whole--of whatever he'd need in the moment. Or just run right over them.

_Pretentious slut._

Of course he wasn't able to hold Sir's gaze — the look of a man who knew what Bruce truly was — now, under these conditions.

Across from him, Sir's hands paused.

"You're allowed to meet my eyes, Bruce." His voice remained amiable and— Sir was so very _patient_ , generous, to allow Bruce to eat in front of him after displeasing him. Perceptive, calling attention to Bruce's failings. _Correcting_ Bruce instead of immediately punishing him, as he surely deserved.

The bit of food in his mouth was tasteless, impossible to chew. Bruce concentrated on swallowing it down as his stomach shriveled. He focused on calming his rising temperature, on reining in the chill racing across his skin, the stress sweat rising to his pores.

After a flitting struggle— one that felt disrespectfully long— he was able to raise his eyes, ever so slightly. Just enough to see Sir's hand lift a glass of juice and return it to the table.

"'Specially outside in public," Sir said.

Bruce was torn— between compliance and training, but still could not bring himself to meet Sir's eyes for a moment.

"All eye contact is not equal. Glances are not an angry stare that challenges authority. Wouldn't you agree?" Such forthright frankness, aloud, was… unprecedented, in Bruce’s dealings, both public and private.

The unwavering attention raised hairs on the back of his neck.

He choked on his answer. "Yes, of course, you're right." Bruce just needed to keep breathing. "Sir."

Sir was always right. Sir made the rules. Sir gave out his rules. Bruce's ancient and faltering training was nothing compared to disappointing a present, _living_ Dom. Even in the Shadows each freeman would make their own little special rules. And Sir... Sir was indirectly all but _commanding_ Bruce to look him in the eye.

_Comply. Comply! **Comply**! _

Bruce stole another upward glance.

Sir was smiling warmly at him, even before his eyes rose a second time. Bruce was... Bruce was _pleasing_. His eyes felt hot – relief wrapped tight around his ribs. Bruce blinked rapidly to avoid causing a scene.

The heft of Sir's stare was on him again, a pull like gravity. Slowly, he took another bite, gaze dropping to Bruce's fork then back up. The smile remained.

_Permission._

Suppressing a chill, Bruce took another bite.The next was easier, the one after that easier still.

Each time he glanced up, he saw that same slight curve to Sir's lips. In his attention to it, he only vaguely registered when their excitable server returned. He ignored the table being cleared and only realized the coffees had arrived when the rich scent hit his nostrils.

"They never leave enough room for cream," came with soft amusement from across the table. Mr. S's hands moved in what seemed to be a habitual dance; a disturbing amount of cream, approximately five heaping teaspoons of refined sugar, culminating in a milky, near-white concoction. 

"Mmm... That's a good grind. Little strong," Sir murmured after a long sip. 

_How can he tell?_ Bruce blinked. 

"Don't you think?" Raised eyebrows and a steady stare at Bruce.

Again, explicit permission. Explicit expectation.

Disregarding both sugar and cream, Bruce lifted his own demitasse and took a careful sip of his own, steam wafting in a pleasant arc around his face. He gave his full attention to the taste, the better to formulate a truthful response to Sir’s question. The roast was dark, the acidity mild and rich. A touch of bitterness twisting into a smooth caramel-ish swallow, oils blending on his tongue. A very good grind.

_A more than passable cup._

He gave a short nod. "Sir." It didn't compare to Alfred's, of course, but then few brews did. "Very good."

A pleased sounding hum, low and warm. 

Eyeing the folds of Sir's sleeve as the man drank again, Bruce contemplated the diameter of his bicep, attempting idly to calculate the strength of an arm so obviously endowed with brawn. _Formidable_. Yet Sir held his cup in as careful a hold as Bruce, if with a different hand telemetry. 

_He's safe enough, perhaps._ Perhaps.

They sat in a silence broken by the clink of china and the ambient drone of milling conversation for some time, then Sir moved his demitasse and saucer to the side. Taking the cue, Bruce smoothly moved to place his own dishware aside. 

With a practiced motion, Sir removed his notebook from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, along with the pen Bruce had seen on his entrance to the restaurant. He held them lightly, poised in his hands, the line of his jaw settled.

Bruce consulted his inner clock and realized with a jolt that his minimum allotted time for the Meet had already passed. Without him in any way proving himself. How many tests had he already passed? 

_How many have I_ failed _?_

"So tell me about yourself," Sir said, and Bruce's mouth was already opening to give his standard, glib reply.

' _I'm an only child; I like sunsets, hard leather and long hobbled walks on my own private beach; ' I'm a Pisces; I want to be whipped until I can't breathe; I'm rich—'_ Until he registered the carefully polite tilt of Sir's head and the flicker of resignation in his eyes.

_I need this._

But to drop protocol so grossly as to speak to Sir without a clear goal, and about himself... The clink of tines on dining ware was a din. The low chatter a flood of static and anxiety, rooting Bruce in his seat.

He could see it already—he'd say something outre, something _disappointing_ to this man who was already so promising, and Sir would make his mark in his notebook, and quite possibly be kind to Bruce. And then he would thank Bruce for his time, leave the table, and Bruce would receive a very professional text notifying him that his invitation was rescinded.

Because where most others were impressed by the simple fact of Bruce's presence, this Dom wasn't. He was either a very good actor or he really had no idea who Bruce was. No, he'd seen whatever passed for Bruce's file, he must have. It wasn't Bruce's identity the man lacked—it was Bruce's _celebrity._

That realization felt dangerously like freedom.

"I'm living a lie." Bruce stared at the tablecloth. Silence, then a creak as Sir shifted. In his peripheral, Bruce saw the paper and pen placed on the table. 

When he glanced up, Sir's expression was no longer polite, no longer disinterested.

"And what is it you need from our Service, Bruce? How can I help you?"

Bruce swallowed. _Yes._ "Sir," he said. "I need to be punished."

Without looking, Sir lifted two fingers and gestured an approaching Craig away. His eyes never left Bruce's face.

"When you registered with the Agency," he said. "You filled out an extensive electronic interests and specificity questionnaire. I'd like an updated hardcopy."

There it was again—'I'd like'. Bruce was accustomed to direct orders; Sir obviously preferred a more indirect approach, but it came with dangers. For instance, it meant that Bruce was forced to make a large number of assumptions rather quickly, and the odds of him making the _wrong_ assumptions were, as he'd already proven, significant. He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"I'm not comfortable with the lack of accountability in Preemptive Consent, Bruce. But I am willing to approve a Transient Contract, with option to renew or renegotiate."

"Sir," he settled on, striving to put as much thanks into the single word as he could. He remained still, shoulders tensed, staring at the weave of the tablecloth as Sir reached out. The sound of water splashing, ice cubes clinking on crystal.

The glass of water appeared under Bruce's chin. "Drink," Sir said, voice low. _Kind._

His hand lingered a moment as Bruce reached, on autopilot, and strong fingers closed over his briefly. "Hey. It's all right to be nervous." Sir gave a brief squeeze then released him. "Drink."

Belatedly, Bruce realized his hand was shaking. _He_ was shaking. This was bad. He was behaving terribly. He was already down too deep, already heavy-lidded. _Why?_

The ice numbed his tongue. He set the glass down carefully, stared at the wall beside Sir's shoulder, and smoothed his expression.

"So," Sir said with a steady smile. "This is one of your haunts too. I like the sun-up menu, personally. They've made a few changes since last Friday." He didn't ask, didn't need to ask, Bruce could see. Sir's eyes were steady too, and watchful.

 _This one made the changes._ Bruce gave a short nod, eyes lowering further.

The tablecloth was worth every dollar, fine creamy lace in intricate concentric whorls, threads drawing the eye from one dainty knot to the next. Bruce envied the threads, bound and held in place so tightly.

After a brief pause, Sir continued, tone lighter. "The attention to detail's remarkable." He lifted his glass, took a sip of water and let out a sharp sigh as he looked about the renovated space. "Two options for breakfast, two things you knew you'd eat.You like to plan - that's good." Sir's gaze came back to rest on Bruce. "Tell me about your last Contracted Service."

"Sir," Bruce murmured. He fought to expand his answer through the thrum of unexpected praise. More unearned reward. "Mistress Ivy. She was very good."

Sir tilted his head. Blinked hard behind his glasses, eyes sharp. His expression of interest though, didn't change. He pushed his glasses up with one finger. "I'd like for you to tell me one hard no."

Bruce's palms were damp. He thought frantically. He didn't have enough information to know what this Dom wanted either, not any more than he had with Edge. No good had ever come of telling a Dom what Bruce _didn't_ want. He struggled, then gave in to his compulsion with a sensation of dread. "Shackles, sir."

Sir smiled— _smiled_ , at him. "Shackles... good," Sir said, voice warmer. "I want to write that down. Alright with you?"

_What need would he possibly have to write down my wants?_

Bruce opened his mouth to answer then shut it again just as quickly. _Too many variables._ He nodded, a single jerk of his head, instead.

"Thank you for that. That's good, Bruce." Sir smiled, took out his notepad and pen and wrote. He placed his pen down, didn't speak until he'd met Bruce's eyes again."I'm not a big fan of metal restraints, either. Pinchy. Unsanitary. Unsafe."

Was Sir criticizing Mistress? But she'd only given Bruce what he'd asked... begged for, really. Bruce breathed, in and out, concentrating on the texture of the cloth between his fingers, hidden under the table's edge.

"And its important to me, to both of us, to know where the boundaries are," Sir continued. "For our mutual comfort."

_Baffling._

Sir made another note on his pad before looking to Bruce, smile firm and professional. "Do you find this seating arrangement comfortable?"

No— no he wasn't comfortable, being lulled by that confident, warm tone. No. But he _needed_ it.

"No, sir," Bruce said, quieter yet.

Another quickly jotted notation caught from the corner of Bruce's eye. "Why was it so important to separate us from everyone else here?"

Answer— he had to _answer._ "It's dangerous to be around me, sir."

"Am I in danger, Bruce?"

"No, sir." And then, because he couldn't help the clawing of guilt, "Not you, sir." Bruce waited, tensed for the killing stoke of that pen to seal his fate.

He struggled not to break— bend, _fold_ — under the weight of that stare, but Sir didn't reach for his pen. "Why is it dangerous, being around you?"

The tablecloth was a white smear. "Because I." Sir would not be pleased with Bruce avoiding questions, would he? He got a hold of himself. "I ruin... everything."

He focused on the chips of ice floating in his glass. Now. The punishments would come _now._ He heard the slow intake of breath from across the table.

"What's your favorite animal, Bruce?"

"I—" Bruce fumbled, ducked his head at the change in subject. "The owl, sir."

Now Sir made a note, circling something before once again placing the pen harmlessly on the table.

"Good. That's a good choice, owls. We used to have a couple out in the barn when I was little. Never forget waking up to the sound of that." His voice was low, with a touch of good humor, almost as if he were inviting Bruce to take part in his amusement. "They're smart, though. Good hunters. You know, people say barn owls are dangerous too, but they usually only attack when somebody's stupid enough to intrude on their territory. I think it suits you."

Nodding automatically, Bruce tried to process the words, the _praise_ seeping into him, warming him. Why? Why was Sir praising him? What had Bruce done, that was worth praise? Did he enjoy seeing Bruce fail?

The silence pulled out as Bruce tried to think of how to respond, how to move his heavy tongue. The air was thick with babble and perfume, cologne and butterfat, turning his stomach with the taste of failure. He was failing right now, doing it _again._

The sounds began to fade in and out, and there wasn't enough air suddenly, not enough to breathe or speak. Not enough to exist as he frantically tried to divine what he was meant to say, _what did he say—_ _  
_

"Have another drink, Bruce."

"Thank you, sir." Gratefully, Bruce opened his mouth to take in what his hand was already bringing to his lips. The ice soothed his tongue, his dusty throat. Sir's voice was calm, cool as the water and as oddly gentle.

"That's better, isn't it? Good, thank you."

Sir's words warmed him, caused the world to go soft. The ice-water was a shock, and it brought Bruce back to himself in a rush of awareness. He drank steadily until the glass was empty.

Sir's lips tightened in Bruce's peripheral view— either displeasure or exasperation the most likely cause, in Bruce's experience. Taking another sip of his own, Sir then set his water glass down with a deliberate thunk. Bruce, already tense, felt his muscles twitch. Sir's eyes took him in, a considering gaze.

"You tried to find your former Provider. Why?"

Rubbing his hands on his trouser knees under the table, Bruce made an effort to raise his eyes to meet that gaze.

"Mistress could control me. Watch me. She was very thorough."

"And you want that." Sir's smile had faded. He stared at Bruce, eyes intense and searching. "Routine. A total power exchange." His eyebrows rose. "An arrangement that requires a large measure of permanency and rapport."

It wasn't a question, but Sir had seemed to appreciate Bruce's initiative earlier...

"Yes, Sir." _Please._

"So then why did you only request a Preemptive contract? It gives a certain impression. Were you aware?"

"Sir." Bruce swallowed, suffused with shame. "Yes, this— It would be presumptuous to entertain more. With this one's— with such well-documented... flaws."

Sir tilted his head, "Such as?"

"Discipline often was needed for—"

Mistress' voice was in his ear. _Needy, greedy, insatiable worm. Worthless cheap whore._

Bruce took a deep breath, then another. "Unreasonable expectations of attention, sir."

"Well." Sir's lips curved upwards slightly. "I prefer to make my own assessments on what's reasonable." He lifted the pitcher and calmly filled Bruce's glass. "I doubt that will be a problem for me. I enjoy observation. Being... attentive." Prickles broke out, an itch under Bruce's skin clawing at him as Sir's mellow voice continued. "I don't ask for blind obedience, but your active engagement is and will always be crucial. How do you feel about regular video check-ins? On a secure network, of course— in real time?"

How should he feel about something he hadn't even realized was an option until this moment? It wasn't recordings Sir was talking about— this was the gift of live visual, live _attention,_ eyes on with no space for shadows or hiding that he was offering. How did Bruce feel? "Good, sir."

"Would you like that?"

Bruce exhaled and made the mistake of looking up directly into intent dark blue. Immediately, he lowered his eyes, blinking to shake away that bright gaze. " _Yes_ , Sir."

"And how often, ideally, would you prefer this contact?"

He stared down at his refilled glass in consternation.

"There is no right or wrong answer, Bruce," Sir said softly. "Only the truth."

This had never been the case before. It was off— _foreign_ to Bruce's previous encounters with Agency Doms. There was always a _right_ and _wrong_ answer... wasn't there? But if Sir said there was not, then there was not. QED. Which meant— the rules had changed again. Sir wanted only the truth from Bruce, and to do any less was to prove himself ungrateful. _Spitefully_ defiant from the start.

His voice found purchase. "Daily, Sir." He couldn't ask for more. Couldn't be so utterly pathetic as to admit—

"Daily," Sir said neutrally. 

Guilt struck Bruce. Blindly, he reached to put his glass back on the table. In a flush of anxiety, he opened his mouth.

"Multiple times daily, yes sir." _Damn._

"Good," Sir said, making another note. "In order for me to serve you properly, I need one hundred percent accurate and honest information. I intend to give you that same courtesy. We may find that there are some Services I won't be able to offer you, but the chance to care for your needs to the best of my ability is one I take pride in." 

He reached across the table, and folded his hand slowly over Bruce's, his grip firm and warm. "I understand how difficult it can be to trust after an experience like yours. If you're willing to give me the opportunity, I'd like to move forward."


	12. Chapter 12

Writing the after-Meet report for his Vault was more difficult than Clark expected. 

> _He's wild._

It was the first thought that hit Clark, as his newest potential Client entered the distressingly remade restaurant. Same broad shoulders, same wing of grey streaked like feathers across dark brown. Same harried, preoccupied frown as in Nihili's Agency file headshot. Not in a way that needed _taming,_ no, not so much as...

 _Needs tending,_ Clark wrote, the familiarity of neat shorthand reassuring under his pen.

Of all the clients to serve in Gotham, this was a landfall of potential, financially speaking. It was more than just that driving Clark's interest, though.

He knew who the man was; like anyone who lived in Gotham that didn't live under a rock. Hell, even the people who lived under bridges in town knew who this was.

 _Bruce Wayne._ Brucie the insatiable, Brucie the lush, Brucie the savior of orphanages across the state, Brucie the scandalous _._ Perhaps Brucie the man who'd never met a Dom he couldn't buy. 

Bruce Wayne, who'd scanned the restaurant's interior like some of Clark's combat veterans did — what did they call it...?

> _Does reconnaissance when entering rooms.  
>  _
> 
> _*Even familiar rooms?  
>  _
> 
> _*Heavily sight dependent?  
>  _
> 
> _Reserved table with clear line of sight to all doors. Note: check hearing accuracy _._ _

Clark had made himself stop his negative train of thought right there; his clients deserved better than the latest gossip. Steve had declined him only days ago, and there hadn't been any shoptalk about how Bruce Wayne threw a fit on the Agency floor or tried to priceboost to get his way. Things like that happened all the time; Steve hadn't given him a Black Mark, only an Orange Flag. And it wasn't as if it was exactly Nihili's fault entirely, if he'd been acting out, with the way he’d been treated. 

That was presuming any of that trash news on the tube was the truth at all.

> _Caution.  
>  _

Still, he was a powerful man. A powerful man who became anxious at the thought of ordering his own food in front of a Dominant, and who'd been grateful, seemingly, for Clark's intercession. 

> _Definitely extreme end of submissive spectrum.  
>  _
> 
> _Anxious eater. Perfect posture, submissive eyeline.  
>  _
> 
> _Deferential body language and speech. Intelligent. May have been looking for hand signals.  
>  _
> 
> _*Note: What school? Independent? His records don't mention training for it- *Not Agency taught*. Most likely Rankless, but seems too damned... militant? Look into possible service record._

Who spoke of himself with the same terms Clark had heard in darker corners of much less stringently policed communities.

> _Client requires and is most comfortable with strict protocol. He shows evidence of extensive abuse via depersonalization protocol.  
>  _
> 
> _Training runs deep.  
>  _
> 
> _Severe response to eye contact._
> 
> _Requires substantial attention to feel safe. *Needs to feel watched.*_

Nihili deserved a fair Interview, on his own observable merits and flaws. _Bruce_ deserved to be seen as the man he was, not what popular media or Ivy's barbarism had made him out to be. Keeping that firmly in mind, Clark then started again.

> _Bruce is crowd-shy and averse to abrupt loud noises, quick movements and interruptions.  
>  _
> 
> _Low affect, but responds well and intelligently to direct questions without hesitation for the most part. Reacts to praise with suspicion.  
>  _
> 
> _Masochist.  
>  _
> 
> _Extreme stress response to mentions of former Provider.  
>  _
> 
> _Extreme stress response to nonverbal disapproval._
> 
> _* Body language sensitive * (Psychology? Military training??)  
>  _
> 
> _*Possible reaction to anticipation of public punishment?  
>  _
> 
> _Positive reactions to all vocal reinforcement despite his suspicion._

He hadn't spoken to or approached before the agreed-upon time — had made himself visible and available, attention obviously on Clark without being ostentatious, even in a crowded waitbar filled with chatty customers. He hadn't taken the opportunity to smile or give attention to the people jostling and staring at him. Clark jotted down another note.

> _He's humble, in private. Self-effacing. Courteous. Frightened. Honest._

Bruce was thoughtful, in an obtuse way. He hadn't been making a power play with his obscene display of wealth, that much was clear. He'd been... what? Clark thought, then lowered the pen.

> _Bruce performs submissive display of possessions as part of attending Dominant's examination. Comportment exemplary. In light of this, removal of egocentricity (Flag 19) from Client Records is appropriate.  
>  _
> 
> _Re: low affect - Bruce is ~~reluctant~~ averse to expressing personal preferences verbally. Previous partners most likely culprit, though conditioning is extensive.  
>  _
> 
> _Bruce's respiration inconsistent with observed facial/muscular cues: aggression, upset, (possible panic?)  
>  _
> 
> _Check latest medical panel for respiratory baseline during questioning.  
>  _
> 
> _( Manual Heartbeat Review During Scenes a must! )_

In fact, Bruce had been, as Steve's report suggested, too withdrawn. Almost as if he'd expected censure from the start. As if he expected Clark to cause him real pain... and yet he'd come anyway. Obeyed each suggestion, without the hesitations indicating a decision being made. 

The small segue into literary conversation had been— not a slip, but an opening for some sort of personality to gauge. Instead what Clark had gotten... he still wasn't sure what he was dealing with. That his newest Client was a man used to performance, that was clear.

> _Certainly not the Brucie of mass media. Makes sense he needs Agency confidentiality if he's hiding that much._

He'd been obviously taken aback by the food, suggesting that previous Dominants hadn't had an interest or enough care to keep him well-fueled during Scenes. Perhaps they hadn't allowed him to eat at all, or had ordered him _not_ to.

 _Or maybe he was punished for eating without permission._ It was more than troubling. 

> _Bruce acknowledges understanding of right to refuse. Has yet to evidence practical application._

There were so many questions, but first and foremost, Clark's duty was to see not only to his Client's stated wants, but also— and more importantly— their needs. 

Distantly, Clark realized that at some point he'd already decided to take Bruce on as a Client. Whether it was due to the harrowing footage he'd watched, the knowledge that no one should ever have their boundaries trampled in the way this man obviously had been suffering for some time, or some other factor...

Clark had to help him. 

That was the entire point of why he was in this line of work, why he did what he did, wasn't it— helping people out of whatever shell of themselves they'd managed to get stuck in? Helping them find a more livable version of themselves.

And Clark thought, looking at all the information he did (and didn't) have, if there was anyone who hated themselves, who needed to know themselves, who needed Clark's support—

Though the how was still a mystery nagging at Clark, well—

Bruce Wayne definitely qualified.


	13. Chapter 13

Two days wasn’t long, considering the five weeks he’d already spent going cold turkey, but the wait for positive communication from Mr. S via courier was hell on Bruce’s nerves. Still, he was grateful for the concession when it came, distressingly so.

_I have to prove I’m worth the trouble._

A drive in to the Agency after-hours was par for the course in secrecy, and an inconvenience Bruce was more than happy to suffer. If all went well, if he continued to pass the tests Mr. S set, he’d have real control in his hands again. 

Real security. For those he cared for, for _Gotham—_ real safety. _Safety from the Darkness._ Safety from _Bruce,_ and the madness pressing against his skin with every gust of hard Gotham rain. Leaving his vehicle, Bruce darted for the interior as gracefully as he could manage, with a nod to the parking garage doorman. The wind raked through his hair at the door.

But the foyer of the building was an oasis of calm, preoccupied expressions and brisk gaits, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to cause alarm. Therefore, the Bruce Wayne who entered its walls was _not_ alarmed. He concentrated instead on a steady pace, on maintaining a pleasantly neutral expression as he crossed the hall and on not seeming over-eager as he entered the designated area. 

_The Exchange_. Cool natural shades and comfortably indirect lighting. More modern somehow than Bruce had expected; a touch more chic. The far wall behind the packed bar arrested his view first— a wide, room-length window. Through it Bruce could see the teal-backlit curves of the fountain in front of the building. 

There was no one to take his coat here, no one to smile charmingly and direct Bruce in the appropriate direction. No one to hurry to his side with a quiet ‘this way, Mr Wayne,’ and smooth his way. About the room, Bruce counted no less than ten small groups of people convened, multiple sets of couples, some over drinks, others exhibiting body language with obviously more adventurous plans. Fifteen or so hopeful-looking singletons sat amid the tables. Bruce didn’t envy them, having to sit out in the open, naked to eyes and worse, for those vulnerable… Approach.

Even with the amount of people in it, the lounge felt near-empty. He steeled himself. If he couldn’t find his way through this meager diversion, he was hardly fit to serve an Elite. _Hardly fit to be in Sir’s presence._ The thought made him move faster. 

Bruce frowned, smoothing his hair one-handed as he peered at the numbers outside each of the private rooms to either side of the wide lounge before he saw the correct one. None too soon— he’d lost precious time pacing through the throng of humanity looking for the right door.

He slipped inside with another cautious glance around the bar.

The booth in _The Exchange_ was cozy, understated luxury. Designed to impress and for comfort, though prized more for privacy than anything else, as far as Bruce could see. He’d trawled the forums on more than one occasion over the years, seen flickers of the growth the Agency must have had in nearly a decade, but… It had been irrelevant information before. 

He’d never actually spent an appreciable amount of time in the place before— Mistress… 

She’d preferred more organic locales, places where the odd grimace of pain was overlooked. Places she could _play—_

Sir sat waiting, posture relaxed and secure. Bruce slowed as he approached the table, eased to a standstill at a respectful distance and bowed his head. _Willful, forcing a Dominant to wait. Worse, to wait for Bruce—_ The stare prickled his skin.

“Have a seat, please.” Mr. S... _Sir_ was wearing a snug-looking, red-checked plaid shirt, and crisp bluejeans. Was this ironic costuming or some esoteric test? Would Bruce be expected to wear workman's clothing? 

_What does this mean?_

Eyeing the visible exits with a slight turn of his head, Bruce settled his breaths. He sat in the booth and feigned relaxation in his seated position a little more. With effort, he focused his attention back towards the other occupant of the booth as the door swung closed behind their server, cutting off the hum of conversation in the outer bar. 

“It’s funny - I wouldn’t have remembered if not for our conversation the other day, but—” Sir broke off with a slight chuckle. “Believe it or not, I actually checked the weather today. What do you know?” He patted a long black umbrella that was dripping gently at his side. “Forecast said rain.”

Bruce sat silent, variables and possible responses firing across his mind as he thought furiously. With regret he took in the facts: he had no umbrella himself. He’d known about the possible weather conditions, and he’d deemed it a negligible risk factor— unnecessary to defend against. 

And now he’d failed the most basic preparation test of all, proven himself unreliable. _Worthless._ Stomach roiling, _tensing,_ Bruce readied himself to be turned away. 

“Not that I used it,” Sir continued. “Fresh air does the body good. It’s refreshing, after the humidity of the last few days.” Mr. S gave Bruce a hard, searching look before he spoke again. “I’m sorry, I’m usually a little less awkward about these things, but given your ah… history with the Agency, I’d like to be clear about the details. With your cooperation?”

 _Of course._ Inclining his head, Bruce lowered his eyes in assent long enough to be respectful.

"Great! So," Sir said. "Tell me, what would you like to do?"

Bruce glanced up at him. "Sir. I--" He paused, and thought before he said another word. The question... not 'what do you _want_ to do', no . What would he _like_ to do...?

What _did_ he like? How much did it _matter?_

"Is there a skill you'd like to practice or refine?" Sir continued as if Bruce hadn't just stalled out unforgivably. "Maybe something you've been curious about, but never had the opportunity to try? A particular headspace you want to get into?"

Bruce swallowed.

"Would you like to put on a show for others?"

He didn't need to think about this answer. " _No_ , Sir." He put on enough shows, every waking moment.

Sir made a note. "Alright. You did mention... Punishment. Would you enjoy some impact play, Bruce?"

The format of Sir's questioning was clever; it forced Bruce off balance. To not only ask for, but _claim_ his own shameful desires, his shameful _needs—_ To _admit_ to them... 

He'd done far worse, for far less profit. "I... Would, Sir."

"And would you prefer an implement, or my hand?"

Bruce drew a blank. It was a difficult question to answer truthfully. His choices were attend only to the choices he'd been given and run the risk of telling a falsehood out the gate, or... Or he could answer the underlying question.

_Both._

"Both, Sir." Eyebrows drawing together slightly, Bruce made himself continue. "I don't know, Sir," he said, keeping tight rein on his breathing.

Sharp blue eyes took his expression in.

"You've never _been_ spanked by hand." Sir sounded oddly charmed.

Not a question. Not something that sounded as if it required an answer. A possible defect? Bruce sat as still as possible.

"It can be illuminating, provided you have the temperament." Sir made a note, pen delicate in large, square-tipped fingers. "Would you like to give it a try?" he asked pleasantly after a moment of reflection.

"I would, Sir." Easier, this time, to gracefully fold.

Some flicker of disquiet must have been apparent, because the Dominant tapped his pen thoughtfully on his notepad. "You would like to try it, but...?"

"But..." But what? "I would...like..." Bruce said, testing the word. "An implement, Sir."

"Hard or soft play?"

"Hard—" Bruce cleared his throat. " Hard play. Yes, sir."

Sir's eyes flicked up. "I don't mind drawing blood, but we'll forgo it pending repeat sessions. I'd like to establish a baseline first." He marked off something with a slight frown. "So... Given a scale of say, one to ten in intensity, Bruce, which number would you choose?"

_Choose?_

In confusion, Bruce strove to stay engaged. Scales he knew; they were reliable, _quantifiable._ Though this one was rather more subjective, now that he considered it. What would Sir, with his experience, consider a ten... or a _one,_ for that matter? How did this information help the situation? 

Thinking, he decided to err on the side of caution. The Bat clawed at him even now, demanding he yield to the urge to clad himself, armor himself, _destroy himself—_

"An eight, Sir." Yes, an eight. Enough pain to drive the Darkness deep, to let Bruce rest, to let him _breathe_ without this shredding doubt that ripped at him— 

“And how would you categorize your pain tolerance?”

“Above average, Sir.” 

"Hm." Sir made another note. "On the heavy side. I also prefer a workup with new clients,Bruce. So let's say... objectively, a four to an eight. Lots of room to work with there. Does that sound appealing?"

A workup? Sir wanted to... ease Bruce into a proper whipping? But it made no _sense._ Punishment was sudden and harsh, with Mistress. A flogging, or the taste of her favorite whip was something _Bruce_ had always been tasked to adjust to, not something he'd ever considered a Dominant might want similar considerations for.

Did it appeal to Bruce?

"Yes, Sir." God yes, it did.

"Well," Sir said, adjusting his glasses. "I have a modest selection of impact implements. Varying widths, hardnesses and textures. I'm sure we'll find something that meets your needs without outside contracting. If I don't have it, I'll acquire the necessary equipment, standard clause."

Glancing down at his notes, Sir nodded to himself. "Do you have any special toys or equipment that holds sentimental value to you, that you'd like included in the session?"

"No, Sir."

"Alright, let's see..." Sir adjusted his glasses, eyes down on his notes and wrote for a moment. "And duration?"

 _Duration?_ Mistress had simply used Bruce until she was tired of hitting him. Others had used quantity of strikes to decide when they were finished with Bruce.

At Bruce's silence, Sir glanced up. "Ten minutes of impact play? Fifteen? If I provide Services for you again, we can work on lengthening that."

 _Ten minutes, out of three hours?_ What would the other two hours and fifty minutes encompass? For a Dominant of this class, most likely something even more challenging. Mutely, Bruce nodded.

Frowning minutely, Sir wrote a bit more. "We'll start with ten. Leaves a good amount of time to get there and back."

A small bundle, perhaps four pages worth, was slid across the low lounge table. 

"I'd appreciate it if you'd fill this out for me. I know you already answered some of these, but what I'm interested in is the gradations of interest on your part." His eyes came up to Bruce's. "For my own records. As much information as you feel comfortable sharing. Please don't hesitate to answer negatively, or with I don't know." He tapped the paper firmly. "Take your time."

The pen slid across the table. Paperwork was nothing particularly new to Bruce; every deal worth its salt came with ink. He worked his way through the lines marked on the pages, pausing every few seconds mark his response. 

After another once-over, and a few raggedly erased and re-written answers, Bruce stilled. The urge to grab up the papers came over him, to hide them away. Bruce set the pen down and exhaled, settling back into his chair. 

"All done?” Mr. S swept the report— because it wasn’t just _paper_ ; that was far too neutral a word. Paper didn’t make Bruce’s nerves jangle and protest this way— “Let's discuss your hard limits and safewords."

He didn't understand. "Yes, Sir?" Just a formality. A necessary bit of observation, protecting Bruce from the cold truth and Sir from legal indemnity— Nothing that should make Bruce’s jaw ache, nothing that should tighten his chest, make him bow his head— 

“I have them here.” Sir's hands moved; one finger turned upward and flicked lightly. A sign, a signal. Bruce raised his eyes. “And I wonder if you’d like to nominate a couple of new safewords, since these have been…” Sir’s lips pressed into a brief line. “Desecrated.”

Bruce stared at him, mind turning the word over ceaselessly. _Desecrated. Worthless._ “No, Sir.” He held himself as still as possible.

"You’re certain?” Mr. S regarded him. “Thank you. They are inviolate," Sir said evenly. "There is no reason or excuse that I will accept, for you not using your safewords when applicable. When you need us to slow down or stop...when you _want_ me to stop, you will use as many of them as you feel comfortable using.” Blue eyes met Bruce’s, without a trace of doubt. “I am asking you not to test me on this.

"I know there's been some boundary trampling— we don't need to discuss it, if you're uncomfortable... for the time being. I do need you to hear me, though." Sir's bearing was indefinably changed. He no longer gave off an affable warmth. His gaze was serious, more serious than Bruce thought the situation warranted at this juncture. 

"I give you _my_ word, Bruce, that your safewords will be respected _at any time_ , whether we are Sceneing or not. As I expect you to honor mine if I need to use them." 

Sir had a safeword? One he was willing to give to Bruce? 

... _At any time?_

"Trust is our number one commodity, here. Is it something you're willing to invest in?"

Trust in a person, in an attractive stranger who claimed to have his best interests in mind? No— he'd been fooled too many times, had let his guard down too many times, been betrayed too many times, to _trust_ this man _._

Bruce wasn't ready or willing or _capable,_ anymore _,_ of that. But trust in a proven method of external control, trust in the acumen of the Agency's services, in _the process—_

"Yes, I'm," he said, sounding unsure to his own ears. Bruce worked to remain outwardly calm. He smoothed his delivery. "I'm willing, Sir."

Mr S quirked an eyebrow at him. "Something for us to work on, then. Good."

There wasn’t much more to do after that than work out the finer details. 

"We're on the home stretch here. Just about done. Ah—" Sir's eyes pierced Bruce. "What is my name?"

An easy question. "Your name is Clark Kent, Sir."

Sir smiled. "This is important to you," he said gently.

Not a question for Bruce to answer, which was... It was good, because Bruce's tongue felt immobile.

"It’s important to me, too.” With a slight nod, Sir went on. “Keeping that in mind, there's just one minor thing I need to clear the board on before we continue," Sir said. Bruce glanced up—because he was _allowed,_ **_allowed_ ** _to_ — and froze as Sir continued. "Why did you misrepresent your sexuality on your entrance paperwork?"

"I—" Bruce's gaze dropped in a rush. He inhaled, nerves jangling. "I thought it best to be discreet." _No,_ _no_ _no_ _!_ To have come so far, only to fail Sir's tests over something so stupid, so _vain—_

"Not much more discreet you can get than here, Bruce. So that's an answer, but it's not the answer you know I want."

What answer did Sir want? Which was the right answer—? Bruce's mind... slid sideways. Of course— Sir wanted _the truth._

"Sir, my first choice... would not have been a male Dominant." It's amazing, how calmly the truth fell out when he wasn't fighting it.

With a small frown, Sir leaned in slightly. "I'd like you to explain."

"This." Bruce breathed. "I do not usually choose men, Sir."

Sir nodded encouragingly. "I understand. As I hope _you_ understand that the majority of my Clients are men who are attracted to other men. Why did you choose a man this time?"

He couldn't allow himself to hesitate, not this close to his goal, no matter how humiliating the truth was. "You have—" Bruce kept his gaze firmly lowered. "Kind eyes, Sir."

"I see." Sir wrote on his notepad for a brief interval before setting the pen down again. 

"I appreciate that very much. It's good to know these things. I asked for two reasons. The first is because your sexuality exam was... inconclusive. Undefined, some might say. Sometimes that happens by mistake. Sometimes... that happens by design." Sir slid his notepad into his shirt pocket. "A lot of things can be faked, with the right know-how. Look at me, please." His voice deepened on the last four words. A command.

Bruce's eyes jerked upwards; he did his best not to stiffen, to look pleasantly neutral and inoffensive.

"You know what can't be faked?" Sir asked, peering straight into his eyes. "The pupillary response array scan you took."

 _Nor the one Sir had just performed._ It was too late to try to fox it by blinking or unfocusing his vision— 

"Now, are you attracted to men, Bruce?"

"Not all of them." _Stop fighting Sir. Stop being willful, be good. Be goo— He knows. He knows he knows he knows—_

"That's a good thing. No one is attracted to everyone." Sir smiled at that, a small, sharp looking twist of his lips. "Are you attracted to me, Bruce?" His head tilted, brows lowered as he peered at Bruce above the rims of his glasses.

No way to meet his eyes for long, but Bruce remembered Before. He remembered, vaguely, what it was like, to admit to his wants without fear of immediate agony. It was difficult, but not impossible, to make sure he glanced up as he said the words. "I am, Sir."

Easier, to see the honest, upward curl of lips in his peripheral view. "Good. That's great news," Sir said. "Because the second reason I asked is... You, Bruce...are very pretty."

"Sir?" The slightest hint of upward inflection, enough to be ignored if so chosen.

“That being said, and keeping in mind your preference for female Providers, it brings us to the next reasonable subject. Sex,” Sir said. “I’ve had the pleasure of serving many clients who did not find submission or dominance to be a sexual event. What I need to know is whether or not submission is sexually stimulating for you.”

“It… has been, Sir. In particular circumstances, yes.” In circumstances like _these,_ yes. Always. _Resistant. Difficult. Disobedient worm._

“Sexual intercourse is not a service I offer most, however I do make available a large area of kink exploration and sexual play to all of my clients.”

What response was expected from such a bald statement? Bruce took the safe road— a slight nod to show he was present and attentive, and kept silent.

“I’d like to know… Bruce, is this experience… Is negotiating likewise stimulating for you as well?” Sir said, voice slightly lower.

“Yes, Sir.” Blinking, Bruce considered his answer. Yes— It was, disturbingly so. Especially considering the amount of corporate negotiations Bruce sat through and took part in every week. Wary, he filed that unsteady knowledge away.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind, then. Moving on.” Sir smiled briefly. “Now - are there any blind spots or no-touch zones on your body I should be aware of?”

Bruce answered immediately. “No, Sir.” He could hardly begin with this Dom by being body-shy, being defective— 

“Are there any blind spots or no-touch zones on your body that _you_ are aware of?” Sir continued smoothly.

Bruce thought more carefully, pausing before he spoke this time. “I— Not that I’m aware of, Sir.”

Another dip of the pen; another note. “I see.” Sir wrote for a moment, then tapped his pad thoughtfully. “How are you with blinders? Blindfolds?”

Taking a breath, Bruce nodded slightly. “Good, Sir.”

“Gag reflex? Tinnitus or vertigo? Fear of heights?” 

The questions seemed harmless, taken individually, but the picture they brought to mind... Bruce deliberately blanked his mind. 

“I… don’t know, Sir.” He picked his way through the answers. “No. None. No fear of heights, Sir.”

At that, Sir’s eyebrows rose in his peripheral view. Bruce glanced up quickly to scan his face, then down again. Sir’s expression was… surprise?

“Bruce.” There was a strange note in the dominant’s voice. Was it doubt? “No fear at all?” Sir asked impassively.

“No,” he said, voice steady. “None at all, Sir.” 

“ _Interesting._ And helpful... _”_ Yet another note. Bruce longed to lean across the low table, to take the papers in hand. To see what about him was worth almost three handwritten pages. Curiosity, his oldest friend, come scratching and itching to be soothed. Was it too much to _know?_ To see— 

_No._ If Sir wanted Bruce to see, he would show him. And if Bruce wanted to be seen as of use, of value, well then… he was getting the impression that _he_ would have to show a bit more than a bowed head, in return.

“Any strong feelings or concerns about location, or would you prefer it be at my discretion?”

Bruce blinked. He could hardly afford to alienate Mr. S now by quibbling over _where_ he was prepared to submit, but… Old habits.

“The location I choose would be secure, of course,” Sir said. “Clean and fully Agency vetted. Private. Indoors.”

Raising his head enough to brave Sir’s gaze, Bruce chose. “Your discretion, Sir.”


	14. Chapter 14

"Alright," Sir said, closing the contract booklet. "Give me a moment to get this stamped, and we'll take a walk."

Bruce had no other plans, no reason to demur or refuse, and no desire to. Sir's frank and forthright manner of speaking about desires, his obvious focus on planning and his... Well. Determination. Yes, _that._

Bruce was in a pleasant, neutral state. He'd been able to successfully answer all questions to Sir's satisfaction. He'd even caused Sir to smile once or twice with his words. The eager light in Sir's eyes— that was Bruce's doing. The glint of appreciation he'd half-glimpsed in one of his glances... That, he supposed, was for him as well. He'd been told often enough, how physically pleasing his body was. How well-bred his features were... Like a prize stallion. 

_Or a prized show-dog line._ Yes, that was closer, wasn't it?

Objectively, he knew where he was— Surrounded, enclosed on all sides. Trapped by his own signature and Sir's will. In a booth. At _The Exchange_ bar. The Agency. Gotham. In reality, Bruce was— 

Stillness. Frozen. Hands clasped to his thighs under the table. Eyes down.

In a maelstrom of waiting, hoping— 

_Sir will come back._

He would, and soon. He'd said so. That made it true, or as true as it needed to be, for Bruce's benefit. No... For _Sir's_ benefit, always and only. Bruce couldn't afford to let a soft tone and forgiving expression trick him into letting his guard down, into complacency.

Without that low, warm tone though, the room was rough, the chill of air conditioning and routine; an echo chamber of whispers and muted laughter. Of casual eyes on Bruce, on his comportment, of people _knowing—_

_It doesn't matter._

It didn't, either. No one who came here would be so careless as to expose the identities of visitors or clientele.

And no one else in this room, no matter how celebrated and fawned over he might be elsewhere, would dare to approach Bruce to ask for an autograph or photo op. The idea was as amusing as it was unlikely. Slowly, Bruce’s shoulders settled into a marginally less tense anticipatory line.

Sir offered no explanation or suggestions when he returned, simply raised his eyebrows at Bruce with a gesture past the Exchange's border, to the wide glass doors of the Agency. For a breath, his eyes were luminous behind framed lenses— a godlike shine teased out by the moody lighting of the lounge. Another breath, and Sir was a mere man again, anticipation in the curve of his lips.

Bruce stood.

"Shall we?" His left hand landed, steady and grounding, on the small of Bruce's back. It's absence was another weight as they passed through the outer doors and onto the street. “I’ve registered us as engaged and leaving the premises. You can expect a check-in from HQ in—” Sir glanced at the sensible watch on his right wrist. “Three and a half hours.” 

Mutely, Bruce gave a short nod. “Sir,” he said, guarded. A check-in?

 _Sharp-tipped claws, tricking their way down Bruce's spine._ Heart-rate rising. This was _happening_ , happening right now. The prickle of his awareness of Sir's proximity was unbearable.

They walked in silence. Sir, unlike Edge, seemed to be in no great hurry to carry on conversation. Instead, Bruce was free to take note of and memorize the route as he stuck to Sir's heels.

Sir didn't go far; down, west three blocks. South three more, east one, then north one.

Bruce consulted his mental map. An extended square— possibly to mask the nearness of Sir's playroom to the Agency. Possibly to test Bruce's intention to submit, or his observational skills. His patience, perhaps. His ability to traverse the pedestrian-congested streets and still obey the undeclared rules that secured him at Sir's heels.

Bruce let his stride settle to Sir’s, examining the man’s gait as they walked. Mr S was neither hurried nor lagging, his pace an easy, long-limbed stride. A stride Bruce could very easily see fitting the plains. Sir didn’t have the look of a Gothamite, even for the years he’d claimed living here. The expression on his broad face was too open, his body language modest— almost retiring. Sir’s shoulders were down, his elbows held close to his body. His head was canted down, Bruce saw from the corner of his eye; perhaps Sir’s eyes were on the sidewalk? Only rarely did he lift his head to view the streets they passed. It was the stance of an introvert, strange to see after how effortlessly Sir had taken charge of their rendezvous. 

Bruce took the task of keeping watch upon himself, scanning ahead and behind as they went to ensure they weren’t being shadowed by over-eager paparazzi or worse, some suburban celebri-fan.Though his own muscles were tight and prepared for evasive action, he couldn’t help but admire Sir’s block-devouring pace.

There was something to be said for a lack of wisdom perhaps, in knowingly contracting and heedlessly going with someone who so clearly ignited... 

Conflict. _Desperation,_ because that’s what this really was— there wasn’t any point in lying to himself or deflecting from the truth, not now. So much could go wrong, had _already_ gone wrong… He should not be following a strange Dominant to a private location, not consenting to be video-taped, recorded while he was vulnerable. 

One of few permissions Bruce had refused to sign for Mistress Ivy, for so many good and solid reasons. At least, his reservations had seemed so at the time. They’d seemed like protection, like security…

They had felt like _control._

Reasons he was now abandoning, because if he couldn’t rely on the discretion of the Agency, on some judgement beyond his own, on an _Elite_ , after every misstep Bruce had made on his own… After every step closer to the Darkness he’d taken… 

Then what was Bruce doing?

There was no caution or rationality to this beyond raw need. Any attraction he thought he felt for this Agency Dom was an illusion, _had to be,_ caused by sheer animal programming. Bruce needed the pain, needed the humiliation and so of course _now_ his mind was toying with him. Giving himself license to fantasize, building a narrative so that it would be easier on his pride when he finally went down on his knees. 

The truth of the matter that Bruce knew all too well was, he already wanted it: to go down for this Dom. Already was damn near _panting_ for it, and it was treacherous, how much Bruce already knew he wouldn’t allow himself to hesitate when the time came.

_Foolish. Disgusting. Incorrigible. Stop it._

They walked where the sidewalks grew wide under transplanted tree boughs, and the doorways grew quietly more ornate.

Instead of stopping on the street, Sir led him through a small gate off a side-yard, on an oblique approach to one of the taller residential buildings. He opened the nondescript door with a small black card and a sequence on a number pad. His body blocked Bruce's view in a move that could have easily passed for coincidence, though Bruce doubted it was.

_I could leave— just go._

Bruce couldn't see Sir's expression— it was becoming steadily more difficult in the silence to remember that he had _permission_ to look— but Sir's body language was open and relaxed as he held the door open for Bruce

_A private entrance._

Sir was close enough that Bruce could smell his aftershave in the early evening breeze. He stood near patiently, but didn't crowd Bruce into the doorway. With the door still open at his back, the sounds of birds and cars on the street outside, Bruce felt as if he stood on the edge of a steep precipice.

_All it would take is one push..._

The sun beat through his shirt, hot at Bruce's back. The interior of Sir's... Apartment building, he assumed— was cool and dim.

_Run—_

_Now._

Ridiculous. _Undisciplined._ Bruce stepped inside.

Even in a neighborhood that already obviously catered to the wealthy, Sir's building looked exclusive, thick tiles and the faint scent of cleaning products in the air. Fresh spring flowers artfully placed in a classic vase just beside the elevator doors.

Sir used the dark slip of plastic again. This time Bruce looked determinedly aside when the cover to the number pad slid away. Though he tried to give Sir his privacy, Bruce couldn't help but lock in and remember— _retain_ — the digital tones of the keys as they were pressed _._

_0-8-2-2-9._

_Security target. Aural. Exploitable._

Sir's attention touched him, prickling his skin as Bruce clasped his hands before him, averting his eyes. He wore his best bland expression: present and blissfully ignorant.

_Behave._

There was only one button on the wall to call the car. There was only the one set of doors, Bruce saw once they were inside the elevator car. Meaning...

Meaning that this was truly a _private_ elevator, not a double-loading affair. Meaning that _this_ elevator, like so many others in luxury residential, was meant to go only to one place: the penthouse. For presumably, only one person: Sir.

He was so close now, so close to relief, to being able to set his burden down for just a breath... just a breath...

Stepping into the small car behind Sir, Bruce quieted his mind. It seemed the doors had only just closed before they were opening again.

"Take off your coat... and the jacket," Sir said when they crossed the threshold. 

The sight before him was... Unanticipated.

Bruce's mind worked furiously, making sense of what he was seeing.

A relatively small corridor, instead of the open space he'd expected. A false wall, obviously a more recent addition than the surrounding brick.

He kept moving, absently pulling his arms from his coat. After a moment of silence, he glanced up, to see Sir watching thoughtfully.

A six-foot wide expanse of flat stone. Marble? Bruce shifted his weight subtly. Yes, definitely marble. Another step, and the vibrations from his movement, the sound of his shoes confirmed it. Not marble veneers— real stone, full tile.

Five feet in, a high step up to the raised, mirror-like finish of a polished wooden floor.

 _Genkan_. Surprising, for a Gotham transplant from somewhere 'out West'. The potential of the afternoon spiked Bruce's blood pressure.

This, Bruce understood. Leaving the filth of the road and the world outside, coming to Sir clean in intent if not in truth... 

Yes, it was fitting. Realizing he'd been perhaps overly obvious in his perusal, Bruce shot another quick, gauging glance at his companion.

There was no sign of whether Sir was pleased or not by Bruce's wandering eyes.

"Hang it there, please." With two fingers, Sir indicated a hook to the left of the wide doorway. ""Shoes stay here. Always." His tone was pleasant and mild. "And so do socks," he added evenly.

 _You come to me naked._ Sir didn't say it, but then... he didn't _need_ to. 

Bruce took another step, and let the elevator door close behind him. He hung his coat, then stalled, smoothing the silk of his jacket in brief dismay. He glanced at the unadorned, waiting hook again, barely better support than a closet door knob. The wrinkles would be extensive, _obvious_ in such a light fabric.

 _Brioni, a shame_. An indignity, rumpled creases for a work of love like this suit, Alfred would... Alfred wasn't here. And that was the point of all this, wasn't it— to take away Bruce's armor?

Sir's head tilted, lips quirking knowingly in his peripheral view.

No, this was a test. The point...

The point was that he didn't _need_ his armor here.

Once again, Bruce felt transparent and with a breath of humiliation, he jolted forward to hang the jacket as well. Sir waited until Bruce had slipped a heel from one loafer and was in the process of removing his dress sock before he spoke again.

"Stepping into this space signifies that you're ready and willing to hand yourself over to my care, Bruce. Is that what you want?"

"Yes, Sir." He didn't hesitate. Bruce's bare foot touched the raised floor. He'd done it, left the unceasing chaos of Outside. He moved quickly to rid himself of his other footwear. "I understand, Sir."

"The rules are simple: The only rules that matter here are mine. You respect this space. You respond when I ask a question, and you remember who you're speaking to. Bathroom is first left. Playroom first right. Blue door means yes. Red door means no."

He reached out as he spoke, hand catching under Bruce's elbow, lifting and obviously intending to steady his balance. Though he didn’t require assistance, Bruce leaned obediently into the light hold with his second step. 

Sir slipped his own feet into a pair of comfortable-looking slippers as he stepped up to join Bruce. It was a well-practiced movement, how Sir stayed near enough to maintain the pinpoint of contact, Sir’s touch. A wave of heat swept up Bruce’s hairline.

"Phone and watch in the basket, just there." He pointed to a small alcove on the left as they rounded the partition. Quietly, Bruce glanced to ensure his phone was locked, and put it, then haltingly, his watch both where Sir indicated, and stepped—

"Welcome to my playroom." Casually, Sir’s hand dropped. Bruce’s elbow tingled at its absence.

Directly into the strangest dungeon Bruce had ever seen.

A wide open room, floor length windows at the far end. Honey-golden wood floors and furnishings with tasteful blue accents. A large, comfortable-looking cobalt-blue leather chair and a cunningly crafted low table. Across from it, a simple wooden chair. What looked like low wooden seats attached the same table, with strange pillowed double depressions smoothed into the wood...

Smooth-paneled wood walls with a regular progression of thick, square exposed beams and recessed spaces, flat metal inset rings gleaming dully from every angle. An odd conglomeration of smoother beams, a dark seam— (a track?) — in a thick cross-beam, parallel to the windows.

Beyond the windows, lush delicate green, leaves tracing their way up the glass. A glimpse of an iron-wrought rail, the glint of sun off bright mosaic tiles. Bruce turned his head slightly to take it all in.

Two blue doors, one to Bruce's immediate left, just past the alcove; the other further in to the right. One glaring red door.

"I'll be recording all our sessions, as we discussed," Sir said, divesting himself of his jacket and satchel with a sigh. He laid them both on the table. "I'm recording right now, in fact. I'm always recording." 

Bruce stiffened. Sir was _recording—_ would see every faulty action and inappropriate move Bruce made. Would be able to _review_ Bruce's performance, to take Bruce to task not just in the moment, but at any time with impunity.

Sir's shoulders squared; his posture drew up, reacting to Bruce’s stillness. His stance settled subtly. “Will you trust me?”

As he tried to take in the space from the narrow visual field he afforded himself, Bruce was aware of Sir watching closely. Silently, he gave a nod.

"Go ahead - take a look."

Bruce took a watchful step forward, let his head raise fully now that he had clear permission. He took a look. 

_Enclosed without being a cage. Sun shades cutting the glare from open sky and the greenery that traced the door to the terrace. Clear line-of-sight views to street level, without being outside. Managing to be both well-lit and comfortably dim. Functional and aesthetically pleasing._ Bruce approved. 

After a moment, Sir cleared his throat gently.

“I like to hydrate, before we get started - juice? Water?”

“Sir?” 

“Would you like a drink,” Sir said mildly. “Before we get started?” 

“I— Sir,” he began. “I— ”

“Would you prefer juice or water, Bruce?” Sir spoke with authority. “Hydration is important.”

He sipped at the glass he was given, surprised to find the glass empty once he’d finished it. Just as unsurprised to find Sir’s hand taking it from him, with an assured familiarity. Or to find Sir moving the air around him. 

_Behind_ him.

“Let me.” Murmured low, close enough to feel his breath on the back of Bruce’s unprotected neck.

Hands slipped his waistcoat from his shoulders, pushed it down until it slid in a whisper and fell to the floor. Sir hummed softly at Bruce’s shaky exhale, outlining the breadth of Bruce's arms before his seeking hands moved on.

“Mmhm,” he said, as if to himself, casually unbuttoning one, then three more of Bruce’s shirt buttons. 

Pulling the shirt open over Bruce's chest, Sir's hands grazed along his abs and ribs, dancing around and over the outlines of the scars that decorated his sides. The heat of him, sinking into Bruce’s skin, into Bruce’s unprotected _back_ for long minutes, while he stayed tantalizingly — _damningly_ out of reach. 

Another test.

Bruce’s hands, at his sides, clenched. _Danger—_ _no_ _!_

Immediately, he found Sir’s hand sifting through his hair to grip the back of his neck— a steady, grounding touch. But had Bruce passed or failed this examination?

“This is a safe space.” Sir spoke quietly, his voice warm and calm. “You are safe, here.”

He forced his fingers open, blinked with the effort of remaining still. 

“Good, Bruce,” Sir said. “Let me.”

Slowly Sir paced behind Bruce. A light touch, drawing fingers up his spine. Bruce let his eyes drift shut a moment, savoring the rising potential, then Sir's hands moved to the front. One palm flat against Bruce's stomach, the other gripping his hip, Sir drew him back— slowly and firmly, against him.

Bruce breathed out sharply at the full body contact. Inhaled, eyes snapping open as he felt Sir slowly nose along his shoulder. 

"Undress," Sir said quietly. 

He didn't move, body radiating heat as Bruce attacked his remaining buttons with quick fingers.

"You smell amazing," Sir breathed into the hair at the back of his neck. "Don't stop. All of it."

Bruce's hands dropped to his belt without hesitation. It was easy enough, after Mistress' ways, to do this: disrobe down to his skin. It was the midway of doubt between fully dressed and nudity that felt like true nakedness to Bruce. It would be true cowardice to stop here though, to put his own comfort ahead of keeping others safe… So near to freedom from his own choices, to the terrifying emptiness of being caged. If only it wasn’t the Darkness that demanded this of Bruce, if only he could ignore the memories crowding him and the fear stink beginning to waft. If only Bruce could want this for its own sake— 

His hands moved with tight precision. And then he was bare, or close enough as to make no difference. Bruce's chest burned with tightness, with _shame_ at the slow inhale and the absolute silence from behind him as Sir finally saw his—

_Ruined, used, ugly—_

He waited, tensed and ready for ridicule, ready to be taken to task for the lack of warning, as Mistress and countless Rankless providers had done. Ready to be _tasked_ by the history written in his skin, to hear the disgust, the dismay—

The _questions._ Always unwelcome, always _hurtful,_ in ways that were difficult to define, always humiliating at the best of times... but on Mistress' tongue, always like acid in his ears.

_'How did you take it, where did they tie you, how did this one feel, why didn't you fight, how could you, you wretch, you fool, you weakling, you stupid worthless waste—_

_You wanted it, didn't you? You liked it. You must have asked for it. You must have earned it. Probably by being just as useless a whore as you are now.'_

And what could Bruce say to that but yes? _Yes_ , a thousand times, yes. Yes, for being weak, for being _foolish_ and trusting, for being _young_ and thinking he was invincible until he'd had it well proven to him that he was nothing of the sort.

The questions were inescapable, a reality Bruce had managed to push far into the back realms of his mind, an inevitability he'd willingly refused to face. And he'd inflicted this sight— his _stigma—_ without warning _,_ knowingly, on Sir. Leaving now was almost unthinkable; if nothing else, Bruce was still a man of his word. 

There was no more running room now.

Under Sir's hands, Bruce shuddered once, violently, and let his head drop lower in silent remorse. 

"Such a chiseled body," Sir said after a moment, pleasantly low in Bruce's ear. "You must work so hard..." 

His hands were in motion, cupping and skimming over Bruce's musculature, over the twined and ragged scars on Bruce's wrists, his arms, touch caressing his blade-scored flesh and the raised and reformed topography of his whip-marked back. Gentle touches, smoothing down his tensed abdominals and the rough-patched burns on his lats to dig hard fingers into his waistline. 

"So very hard... to bring this to me." 

_Is this—what is this?_

Was this mockery?

Sir's fingers probed the deep, jutting vee that framed Bruce's pelvis, pushing the silk of his boxers before them. 

"And these thighs," he continued, fingers still traveling. "Like columns." His hands framed the outsides of Bruce's thighs, traced a wide and jagged scar with curious fingers. Dropped behind to cup Bruce's ass in a no-nonsense grip as the trousers and undergarments fell around his ankles. A thumb brushed over the half-brand at Bruce's cleft, without remark.

"Firm, well-rounded." The claiming touch feathered at the crease of his thighs before sliding to grab both from the front, hands warm and splayed wide, as Bruce stared down at them. 

Sir's hands were an insistent pressure, the casual application of strength urging him to widen his stance. Bruce pulled a leg from the uncooperative fabric hindering his limbs and obeyed, legs spreading. It offset his balance, made him work to remain upright without bending, to yield without faltering under the sensory onslaught. 

_Not mockery, then. But what—?_

Sir's weight shifted, leaning into Bruce's spine, his own denim-clad thighs rough on Bruce's awakening skin.

"Statuesque." A firm squeeze to his inner thigh, almost deep enough to bruise, and now Sir was _pressing_ against Bruce, insistently, the seam of his zipper a hard jabbing intrusion into Bruce's ass cheek. " _Impressive."_ His fingers grazed Bruce's limp cock, a whisper of sensation there and gone. "You like silk," he said, in a tone Bruce struggled to categorize. "Pink."

Of course, because it had come down to a choice between charcoal or salmon, the spring palette favored russet shades this year, and Bruce had wanted to try something _new_ , hadn't he? Against all reason, Bruce could feel his face heating.

Sir's voice dropped, pitch resonant and rich. "I like pink very much, Bruce."

 _Appreciation,_ that's what it was in Sir's voice. Air stumbled out of Bruce. "I—"

"Do you like this?" Sir asked, a thread of command in his voice. Bruce shivered.

_Too much._

"Yes, Sir." He swallowed, and felt quick fingers dart up to chase the movement, cupping lightly over his trachea before smoothing down the hollow of his throat, spreading across his collarbone. Sir's hand toyed there a moment, then slid lower, curled through crisp black and silver hair to inspect his chest. 

Blunt, square fingers soothed over smooth-worn scars en route to his nipples, before taking hold. Sir tugged at them lightly, teasingly, and under that sure touch, Bruce's skin peaked, tender flesh aching for more. 

_It's been too long. Too fucking long._

His nipples were rolled between calloused thumbs, he was—

A pinch, quick and vicious. Bruce's mouth fell open as he sucked in air.

Breathing too fast, needed to— 

"Sensitive. And that jawline. Such pretty bone structure."

A sharp tweak to both nipples reclaimed his attentions. Bruce shivered on a long exhale, shamed by how quickly his body's hungers betrayed him.

Sir made a soft approving noise, fingers soothing over sensitized flesh. "Is my touch pleasing?"

 _Yes._ "Yes... yes, Sir," Bruce whispered.

"Mm. Good," Sir said. 

As quickly as he'd advanced, Sir released his hold. 

Without the pressure of his body, Bruce rocked back slightly onto his heels. The imprint of Sir's warmth against Bruce's back was absent. Goosebumps broke out across his body. He stared down at the ghostly remains of Sir's hands on his thighs as blood rushed back into his capillaries.

Sir moved to stand in front of Bruce again. "Are you ready to get what you deserve?"

His hand trailed across Bruce’s bare chest, wide palm up to his collarbone— squeezed briefly; a firm, anchoring touch. Sir’s eyes bored into Bruce’s. There was not an ounce of shame in his bearing or his features, to be handling a nude man while Sir himself was fully clothed. The heat and weight of his hand, immeasurably heavy on Bruce’s shoulder. 

_No more time. No more cowardice._ His choice was made.

"I'm ready, Sir."

With a nod, Sir turned to the closest textured wall. He pressed one of the symbols embossed into the wall covering and Bruce blinked as the entire wall split and slid aside to reveal—

A wall beneath the wall. A five foot wide _wall_ of toys and neatly-hung implements stretching upwards to the ceiling. Too much to focus on all at once; almost too much to take in.

This was Sir's 'modest' collection?

Single tails, multi-tails, clothespins in a row. Wide, flat lengths and thinner. Canes standing in holders, in descending line of thickness. Hanging bits of leather and metal gadgetry, straight lengths of bar, rubber bulbs, curved plaits of wood. Paddles. Strangely shaped... pillows? Things Bruce didn’t even have a name for— 

A variety of gloves, sharp and soft, wicked and sweet. Tubing. Medical equipment. Rubber hoses. A major first aid kit. God, de-twigged _branches—  
_

And rope. Brilliant coils of rope hung like ourobori in bright colors, a rainbow of possibility. Behind their shining whorls, perhaps.. Yes, drawers, set into the wall as well.

Not a mounting paddock in sight. 

Sir caught him looking and shot him a small, warm smile as he moved, a hand sliding down the line of implements. "Let's see... a four to an eight... so many choices..."

So many choices, so many ways for Sir to _hurt_ Bruce, _control_ him, _help_ him—

There were things within that Bruce recognized, though. 

He forced himself to focus on just one of the tools. Sapphire-blue leather, soft-looking and tightly wrapped around the hilt, wide blue tails wafting with Sir's movement, trailing down to the floor of the hidden storage closet. A symbol like a modified 'S' impressed into the leather, enclosed in a diamond. 

He let his eyes move to the next. A cobalt-tongued riding crop with a shiny red handle. Bruce stared at it, compared it to those beside it. All bearing the symbol from Sir's card.

The same symbol that Sir had pressed on the wall, the only symbol of its like on the walls— no, wait.

There was another, just to the right of the wide windows leading out to the terrace. And another, pressed into the sun-warmed wood of the low table. That mark, Bruce saw, was on every implement and tool he could see from his position, head bowed as it was. These were custom pieces, made for Sir, not the generic tool-set every Agency Service room held. 

_The blue matches his eyes._

Impossible to miss the resemblance, now that Bruce had seen it. Impossible to even entertain the thought that Sir didn't _know_ the effect of this display. 

Any doubt he had as to whether Sir could handle him was gone; replaced with a kind of anticipation he'd never experienced with Mistress Ivy. A chill— the same chill as before— ran through Bruce. His heart jolted, an almost painful wrench, beating faster without his permission. 

_Thrilling._

That was what it was. Sir was _thrilling._

"You have a preference," Sir said without turning, his back to Bruce. "Come show me."

"Sir?" He couldn't be asking what Bruce thought he was... could he?

_You think he cares what you want? It's a trick, you weakling._

A trick, a _test, a—_

"Tell me which one," Sir said, his tone unquestionable, hands running over his equipment. "Justice?" He stroked a long flogger, fingers gliding sensually over oiled leather. "Honor?" He tapped a finger on a single tailed whip with a hum. 

He glanced at Bruce over his shoulder now. " _Choose."_

_Move. Now._

Bruce was already stepping forward. He let his hand hover over the bright flogger he'd first seen. 

"That one, Sir." Carefully, he avoided touching it.

"Ah... Integrity. A good choice." Sir reached and pulled it from the case with practiced ease, gave it a testing spin and smiled. His eyes gleamed. "And one of my favorites." 

He placed the flogger to the side, winding the tails conscientiously atop the countertop. 

“Before we continue, I’d like to remind you that your safewords are sacred here. Mine is barnyard.”

Bruce nodded. “I understand, Sir.”

“Good.” Sir’s eyes darkened. “Turn around, please.”

 _Faster. Move_ **_faster._ **

Heartbeat speeding, Bruce obeyed, swallowing thickly. A hand smoothed down the plane of his trapezius, pressing into his shoulder-blade. A gentle stroke, petting flinching muscles. Though his body locked into place, Bruce kept his eyes down, bracing himself for the unknown as an unassuming, sliding mechanical sound rang out above his head. _A curtain? Another implement? A mounting rack?_

It was no longer his place to look, as much as Bruce wanted to _know_. It burned all the same, trying to stifle his hasty breaths while Sir paced around him, walking away to do something on the other side of the room before his steps approached Bruce again. 

From his downward view, Bruce could see the shining coils of rope held loosely in Sir’s hands. His skin tingled in anticipation, a stolen indulgence while submitting to the necessity of reining in the Darkness. Wordlessly, he presented his hands, wrists upward.

“Good, Bruce.” One bright blue loop around one wrist, the rope being wound gently but firmly up his arm— Bruce’s mind stalled out as the soft fibers hugged his skin. Soft, so _soft!_ Winding steadily tighter up his bicep and now looping in an intricate cross-tie to his other bicep. He felt Sir’s attention, searing into him as his breathing settled. “We’ll start simple, this time. Nothing too fancy.” A well-tied hook loop took shape in the rope, seemingly fashioned from nothing in Sir’s hands.

 _Competent. Precise._ The ropes were equidistant from each other, pulling Bruce’s arms inward from elbows to wrists. Snugly hugging every inch of his arms in Sir’s silken embrace. “Too tight?” Sir tugged at the bonds. He smiled, a bright slash of white teeth at Bruce’s short head shake.

“No, Sir.” The tightness was reassuring, calming his heart from its lively canter. Bruce breathed in deeply, drawing in the scent of warm cotton, male musk and Sir’s aftershave, and exhaled, centering himself in preparation. He was bound, partially neutralized though still a danger.

Sir reached up, above Bruce’s visual field, and pulled something down. “Head up.”

It was a pulley, Bruce saw when he lifted his eyes. A pulley, and a gleaming dull-pointed hook with an odd curl to it. What looked like a bar with grip-holds above the hook, bolted to the line. Bruce’s eyes followed the hook to the pulley above, then traced the ceiling track it was bound to. He eyed the hook with trepidation, wondering where it was meant to go.

His arms were raised; the loop was placed on the hook and as Sir gave another tug, Bruce felt himself being drawn upward. He couldn’t hear the counterweight, but he felt its strength. The puzzle of it drew his eyes around the room, distracted.

“Grab hold, now,” Sir said calmly, and Bruce pressed up onto his toes to wrap his hands around the bar before it rose too high. 

Sir's hand moved slightly and the ropes stopped moving. Bruce hung, with just enough lead to pull his heels from the floor.

"Quiet, hm?" Sir walked behind him and Bruce felt the tension in the ropes holding his arms increase marginally. "Feeling snug yet?"

His throat was dry with anticipation; Bruce swallowed once before he answered. "Yes, Sir." 

The ropes tightened fractionally more. "How about _now?_ "

The tension pulled Bruce onto the balls of his feet. A soft groan escaped before he could bite it back. 

"That sounds about right," Sir said with satisfaction.

Wrestling his breathing under control, Bruce focused on obedience. The question... Answer!

"Very snug, Sir."

A hand ruffled through his hair, palm cupping his skull proprietorially. "Good, Bruce. Tell me what you want," Sir asked, tone pitched low and intimate. 

Bruce was ready for the question this time. "I want you to hurt me, Sir." 

" _Good,_ Bruce. Now... What do you need?"

"I—"

His tongue was suddenly triple-thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth. The brightly wound ropes blurred in his vision. Everything narrowed down to the struggle to pull air into his abruptly stubborn chest, the struggle to answer truthfully, to answer at all—

“Easy now… Breathe for me.” The words floated in from the dark, winding his flesh even tighter, easing into the space between thought and action and washing Bruce’s thoughts clear.

“Where are we?”

"I—" Bruce looked around blindly as if the answer was written somewhere in the track lighting. "I..." His breath was coming shorter, the drive to answer a direct question was making him break out in a cold sweat, but he just... _He didn't know—_ "Safe?"

"Do you want to safeword, Bruce?"

A whimper in the air, like that of a dying thing, abruptly cut off— _Don't show weakness!_ "No?" No, he didn't want this to end; he had to do this _right_ , it could be taken away! His hands curled around the bar possessively.

Sir's eyes tracked the motion, then down to his face. Sir cupped his jaw. "Do you need to feel safe, Bruce?"

One desperate nod, a tear escaping, and Bruce sucked in wind like a bellows as Sir smiled and pet down his chest reassuringly. "I can give you that." Sir nodded, satisfied. "That, I can certainly do."

Another shuddering exhale. "I need to be punished."

"Did you break any of my rules?"

"No!” That he knew of, he thought, he _hoped—_ “No, sir."

"Do anybody else's rules matter?"

He cursed the split-second's pause in his answer. "No, sir." _Flaw: rule of law. Dammit._ Bruce had just broken the very first rule he’d been given. 

"Now tell me the truth." 

"I... want to be—" _Forgiven_. "Clean, Sir."

Warmth; a touch, sweeping over his hands and pressing at Bruce’s fingertips in quick succession. Sir’s hands caressing Bruce’s as if he’s valuable, drawing his hands open to massage at his palms briefly. As if it mattered what happened to these tools, these weapons of the— His resentful gaze followed the line Sir's fingers traced, following the tendons into his wrist as a firm caress, catching on the rope work. _Peacebound_. Safe, for the moment. Bruce's eyes closed.

"We'lI start with a nice warm up, then. I'd like you to count for me."

Bruce exhaled silently, feeling his chest creak with the pressure of building tension. He inhaled when Sir ran a hand down his flank, anxiety fading as lucidity accompanied his anticipation. The sound of air moving registered at the same time as the cutting burn across the backs of his thighs.

Behind Bruce's eyes, the hit seared, sinking into him and tethering the Darkness tightly to his bones. Tempering Bruce into a cage strong enough to hold his demons.

"One," he breathed. The word had barely passed his lips before the next strike came down, lighting across his shoulder blades. " _Two,"_ Bruce said, air hissing out between his clenched teeth.

"Good," Sir said, over the sound and fire of two more blows solidly rocking Bruce on the balls of his feet. "Why are we here, Bruce?" 

The tingle started at the top of his head.

"Three, four..." The crisp snap of Sir's wrist, the sting delicious as the tongues of soft leather licked at his shoulder-blades, the flogger's tails a swiftly-spinning wheel whistling in his ears, singing down to his toes, raising the hairs on the back of Bruce's neck. All over him.

The diffused impact of that hand shuddering through his body. Why was he here? 

_What the hell is happening?_

Why—

No need to fumble for an answer. "This is where I belong. I deserve this, Sir."

"You deserve good things," Sir said, even-toned.

_I...what—?_

"Yes, you do,” Sir replied to his silence, mid swing. “You deserve good things.”

Blazing lines of fire, exploding and sinking into his skin. " _Christ—_ _five_! Six! _Yes_ , Sir!" The tingle, spreading warmth and weightlessness through him.

"Is _this_ good?" Was he _supposed_ to enjoy his punishment like this?

"Yes!" he grunted into the next clawing crash of sensation. And it was; every lancing hit pulling Bruce away from his stubborn body, away from the Dark— "Seven—"

Sir’s hands, at his sides, gripping his rib-cage. Reaching further. The dull bite of rubber, of clamps being attached to taut nipples. Sir’s jaw at Bruce’s neck. Touch. _Connection_. "Then let me give you more." The recoil biting deep as Sir released them to swing from Bruce’s chest, tugging and deviling tender flesh...

"Please, Sir—” The lazy flap of the tails sounded again behind him. “Eight... _Nine...fuck--t-ten..."_

A solid, steady rhythm, laid out by Sir's breaths. One Bruce could sink into, felt the muscles of his back melting into, his breathing shifting to match Sir's pattern. 

" _Good,_ Bruce." The praise sank into him too, made his mind skid sideways, his body lapsing heavily in his bonds. "That's right," Sir said, tone a smoky accompaniment to the growing heat in Bruce's body. "Let it all go. Give it all to me."

By strike twenty-five, Bruce's chest was heaving with the effort of remaining still, legs muscles flexing fitfully, sweat popping on his brow. Glistening as Sir's Integrity worked him over in a rolling, anxious itch all over his body, and _yes. Yes—_

 _"Yes—"_ he moaned through clenched teeth, unable to hold it back.

"You take stripes beautifully," Sir murmured, a hand stroking over Bruce's heated skin. "They're going to be as gorgeous as you in the morning..." His fingers skimmed and pinched lightly at over-hot welts. Bruce’s awareness of the room was a narrow band; all he could see was the silvered hook floating above him. 

"Dark... bruised... _marked_ by my hands. By my cane. I'd like to see it. Would _you_ like that, too?"

"Yes, Sir." _Yes, anything, keep me safe, let me serve, let me stay, keep—_

"Then you'll show me." Sir turned to the storage compartment, his hand landing on a thin, supple cane. "Number eight. Time for Truth. Are you ready for me, Bruce?"

Eyeing the cane, Bruce jerked his head in a fast nod, then closed his eyes. He'd taken worse. He could take this. He _had_ to— real pain was the only thing that taught the Bat, the only kind of reason the Bat would listen to.

"Bruce." Leather, under his chin— the loop of the cane's hand strap forcing his chin up. "Check in, please."

Opening his eyes, Bruce stared into sharp blue. "Here. With you, Sir." He swallowed. "I'm ready."

A wholesome smile, as if they were about to walk the park. "Good. We're going to start with six."

The first strike cuts through the air, impact so clean a hit across the back of his thighs that for a moment, Bruce thinks Sir must have missed. _Then_ the fire strikes, the line dripping into sensitized muscles and forcing his back into an arch. The next two come in quick succession, even and bracing, neither hurried nor faltering. Enough time between each laddered strike for the acidic burn to sizzle down Bruce’s legs and up his spine, for Bruce to grip the bar even harder in his determination not to fall— not to _fail._

Locking his knees was impossible, in this position. Losing his balance would be unmissable and unforgivable. With each hit, the rolling heat spread, up his back, to his shoulders, pooling in his armpits and the insides of his upper arms. Tingling, wrapping around his ribs to peak his nipples into painfully hard points until they felt sharp enough to cut glass.

A scything slash across both Bruce’s ass cheeks and his breath came in ragged puffs as the feeling burrowed into his skin. Another nudged just below the lean curve of his ass. _Another,_ laid deep into the meat of his hamstrings, the fiercest hit yet—

His knees threatened to buckle; with a snarl, Bruce jerked at the grip-bar, head shaking frantically, his body doing its best to pull away from the impact, and not curl up acrobatically out of the way— his mind desperately trying to comply. A low, helpless groan broke out of him.

"You're fighting me," Sir observed, voice calm. "Did you come here to fight, Bruce?"

"No," Bruce was gasping, body straining for air. Sir's voice a tether, grounding him and taunting him with flight. Rising euphoria behind his eyelids. Bruce had to stay in control of—

"Then let go." Soft. Sir's voice was a caress of silk in the dark, a luxurious shackle.

"Can't..." He couldn't, he _couldn't_. But the warmth —lapping up his body in slow molten waves, twisting higher with every word from Sir's lips— wanted him to confess. Own up to his sham. Sir would call a halt to this, kick him out, and Bruce would have nothing to turn to but the Darkness, darkness forever and blood spilled at his han—

"Are you safe, Bruce?" Gentle and relentless, demanding Bruce's secrets as his due.

"I... I don't _know_..." Wrong answer! Bruce knew it; he couldn't stop the honesty anymore. How did he drop so deeply without noticing? How could he allow himself to be so careless? How did he—?

_Worthless—  
_

"Whose job is it, to make sure everything is safe?" Sir’s voice was curiously gentle.

 _You worthless,_ **_stupid_ ** _worm—  
_

"Mine!" Bruce was trying his best to maintain, trying his hardest to stay strong against the inexorable pull of the cadence of Sir's voice, stay calm and give the _right_ answer, but his conditioning— "It's my job, my job to keep everyone safe, my job and I c-can'—"

"Stop." The vicious hold of the clamps loosened with a snap.

Bruce breathed, through the pain and into the calm place obedience offered.

"Right now, it's _my_ job. My honor , to keep _you_ safe. Do you accept?"

"I... Yes. Yes..." _Please_.

"Let go, my Bruce. I won't let you fall."

 _I can’t—_ He never has, never had been able to—

Bruce let go.

Drifting, floating there as hands trace and caress his body, as the low voice lulls him deeper.

"It hurts," Sir said, tracing the edge of a burning welt as Bruce sucked air into his aching lungs. "Feels like it's bleeding? I know." His breath puffed across the hair that lay, sticky and damp on Bruce's neck. "I bleed too...

"Pain is funny that way, for us," he murmured, voice easing into Bruce's ears like velvet. "Pain can be freedom, can't it?"

"Yes, Sir." It could be. It _was._

"So ask me," Sir said. 

In spite of it all, the urge to struggle, to fight back pushed up, rude and sickening. _It could not be allowed._

"Please," Bruce growled, fists clenching on the bar before going loose. A hand smoothed his forelock to the side, thumb tracing his cheekbone. Frustration choked him. “Please, I’m not clean. _Please—_ make me _clean—”_

Sir smiled gently. "Thank you. Six more, now. You're doing great." 

A whistle of warning, and the heat banked in Bruce’s skin burst into sharp flame. 

“Isn’t it freeing?” Sir said quietly. “The release? Being _cleansed_... The expurgation of guilt.”

Bruce felt _known_... _Seen_. Dirtier for it, in Sir’s sight. Safer for knowing he wasn’t being left alone in the presence of an innocent — Sir understood Bruce’s pain, and knowing it… understanding it meant that Sir was forewarned.

Forewarned was fore- _armed_.

A glowing white line of pain pressed into Bruce’s mind with Sir’s second strike.

“Funny,” Sir said conversationally. “How sins are imagined to be ready everywhere, at any time, to ambush the unwary. Lurking in every shadow." Bruce jerked and stiffened in alarm. Immediately, Sir’s hand was in his hair again, soothing strokes pressing sweat-heavy strands back from his forehead. "They’d multiply out of control, if someone in authority didn't declare which decisions warrant punishment — and which _are not_ worthy of guilt.

“And if I say it's not a rule — you don't get to feel guilt over it.” Sir’s hand tight in his hair, pulling his head back until he had no choice but to raise his eyes. “You don't, Bruce.”

A knife-like strike, bearing Bruce up onto the balls of his feet again. His knuckles ached, _he_ ached, muscles threatening rebellion, biceps straining, the whole of him balanced on the edge of surrender. Again, warmed bamboo impacted with a crack, and the breath left Bruce in a rush.

“Who decides which rules you follow, Bruce?” The slightest hint of exertion was in Sir’s voice now, his breathing and scent heavier in the air.

"The law... the law says,"” Bruce breathed. “And you do, Sir.”

Thin, gnawing pain biting into Bruce; he arched, choked, rocked up on his toes. Swept away by the ruthless perfection of agony. His skin seethed, flesh raising into rigid, burning wheals. He ground his teeth, biting back his cries as his throat worked uselessly and a low keen filled the room. He slumped as the torrent of blows ended, eyes wet and stinging.

Bruce felt his lips move, his throat vibrate. In dazed horror, he heard his own voice speak the mantra that gave the Bat license before — that kept him caged now: "Integrity is doing the right thing, even if nobody is watching, Sir."

“But I _am_ watching, Bruce. I will _be_ watching.”

Bruce shuddered. Relieved, he blinked furiously and did his best to ignore the tears falling.

Everything— the cool of the air on his shuddering skin, the hot wash of endorphins and adrenaline lapping at him, his consciousness of the waves, the rod, the warm winding of Sir's voice— _everything_ scythed down to the bite of the cane, the line of pure fire snatching the breath from Bruce.

Up on the balls of his feet, he clenched both hands on the hold-post, before he sagged. Head bowed, sweat-soaked, his throat locked in silent yearning for release, Bruce panted, staring blindly. Waiting, anticipating... Welcoming the next strike as much as he dreaded it.

It stopped, and for a moment, Bruce couldn't wrap his mind around the absence of impact. Was it over? Twelve strikes was a minor agony, a minor suffering and sweet, weightless peace, was _nothing, was—_

Why had Sir paused? Mistress had never stopped until she'd wrung the most shameful noises from him— was Bruce displeasing Sir?

_Can't even take a beating like a man. Weak, useless, pathetic—_

"You're so good for me, Bruce."

_Shock._

He was breaking, he was _broken open_. The world was this: the low hypnotic cadence of Sir's voice, the pain burning in his veins, the urge to bow, to fall to his fucking knees overwhelming.

"You've done everything I've asked. And how long has it been, since you were rewarded for being so very good?"

Panicking, because he was _hard_ , and how long had it been? How foolhardy of him to allow it to happen now. He'd let himself lapse, let himself _forget,_ in the spell of Sir's magnetism and the overwhelming immediacy of his body's clamoring—

Let himself _insult_ Sir, and now—

Why now? Why did he have to fail _now— it wasn't fair—_ and any moment Sir would _see,_ Sir would _know—_

"Look at that," Sir said. "Such a good, beautiful man... with this _beautiful body_ , this scrumptious dick..."

And Sir, Sir _touched_ him, Bruce's filth, his shame. Despite himself, Bruce felt his muscles twitching as he readied himself for the punishment he deserved, too ashamed to even consider begging forgiveness.

"I'd like for you to come. Don't you want to come, Bruce?"

_Yes._

What?

 _No_ . He didn't want it to end. Was he _meant_ to feel this pain of conflict? Intended to want this, this foreign intensity and creeping exhilaration? Was it meant to be this molten wave, this tumult rushing through his ears and blood, _this—_ just close enough to touch, too far for Bruce to dare to reach? 

He struggled against the warmth, the lightness filling him. "I... No, Sir— this one—" God, it was hard... So hard, to let go. "Doesn't deserve it," he managed to gasp.

"You're mine to do with as I want, aren't you?"

"Y-yes... Please." _Please make me yours. Please help me. Help me._

 _"_ ** _I_ **decide what you deserve, not you," Sir said, fingers never ceasing their tormenting glide. "You're going to come for me. Now."

And it was sweet agony, the trembling in his limbs, the shocking release, Bruce's awareness fracturing as he shook. Too much to process as anything other than scourging. Sir's hands branding him, claiming all of him, even this wretched part.

"When you're here, you're _mine_." Sir's voice pitched low and certain, into his ear. "Don't question it again."

When the cuffs were unclasped, Bruce's wrists were rubbed with an inspecting air. His hands slid from the prongs of the hold-bar; his legs folded. _Bruce_ slid, a tightly controlled fall down the long line of Sir's body, to kneel at his feet.

Fast breaths, soundless and heaving. Sweat glistening, rolling down his temples and the indentation of his spine. A large hand came to rest on the crown of his head. 

"Look at me." Sir said. His palm cupped Bruce's cheek before sliding back into his hair.

"Oh, Bruce," Sir murmured, tone muted as he stroked through sweat-heavy locks, moving them off Bruce's forehead. "That's lovely." Satisfaction was tangible in his voice when he said, "Let's get you cleaned up."

The world fell into a blur of impressions: wetness, heat… echoing sparks from his back and thighs, his ass, dull throbbing in his nipples…the bone-deep satisfaction of release…

Sir’s voice. Sir’s touch. Warm cloths and a warmer tone.

A cognitive dissonance so deep that Bruce's mind skidded away from it, and he lapsed into that forbidden place where all he needed do was obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Genkan_ \- are traditional Japanese entryway areas for a house, apartment, or building—something of a combination of a porch and a doormat. It is usually located inside the building directly in front of the door. 
> 
> When the front door of a Japanese home is opened, one is greeted first by the host, and indirectly by a rough-floored rectangle, beyond which a low step offers entry on to a carefully floored or carpeted surface. Technically, the genkan, that lower section of floor just inside the door, is a token of 'the outside', whereas when one takes a step up into the home proper, that is 'the inside'.
> 
> Correct use of the genkan is as much a cultural ideal as it is practical common sense, it reflects deeply held Japanese views and attitudes to the concepts of 'inside', 'outside', and cleanliness, and in the simplest practical terms avoids tracking dirt into the home.


	15. Chapter 15

The water was hot, stingingly so, limning his bruises and welts, etching them deeper. Bruce relaxed into it, a soft breath escaping as his abraded shoulders came into contact with the warm ceramic. Just a degree or two above too much— perfect. Swirling steam drifted upwards, coiling around Bruce as he slumped there.

Just a moment more. A moment to collect himself, and he could... he could move, get out of the way, out of Sir’s space, because Sir wouldn't want— 

"Shhh. Hold still," Sir said from somewhere close. 

Bruce drifted away again.

"Your scars," Sir said, an unfamiliar softness in his tone. "There's a conversation here. But..." He paused. "Not one for right now, I think?"

Wide-eyed, Bruce could only... could only stare for a moment, at the damp towel before his eyes. Had anyone ever asked him this before? If he  _ wanted _ to discuss his... injuries. No one. Not one that he could... not in memory. Such a simple question to ask. To answer.

He moved, a half a  head shake , an aborted jerk. "No, Sir." 

Such relief. Such an amazing,  _ painless  _ truth.

With a slow nod, Sir ran lingering fingers through Bruce's hair again. "Good, Bruce. Later down the line, then."

Later implied more. Implied a shrinking timeline, but more implied... Implied things that Bruce didn't deserve to hope for. That he shouldn't—  _ couldn't  _ hope for. 

Hope was deadly. And blooming, out of all logic and experience, out of what must be madness finally taking hold of him. Hope, like poison in Bruce's heart, destined to make him bleed out. Destined to failure, and yet...

If it was going to be taken from him in any case, what harm was there in letting himself  _ feel  _ it, just this once?

"Unfortunately, our time's almost done," Sir said, still petting him. "Is there anything else I can do for you tonight? Anything you need?"

"Sir... I need to not go out tonight."

Sir seemed lost in thought for a while, hand still moving absently in Bruce's hair. Slowly, his fingers came together, strong hand closing in a stronger grip. His lips brushed Bruce's ear when he leaned in.

"When you leave here, you're going to go home," he said, tone resolute and unwavering as steel. "And you're going to  _ stay home _ and have a nice dinner and go to bed, Bruce. No parties. No press events.  _ Bed. _ Do you understand?"

_ Yes. God yes, he can  _ rest  _ tonight.  _

He was  _ allowed... _ to  _ rest. _

Gratitude, a flood of it, pricking Bruce's eyes. He could  no more leave his home to break legs and dispense wrath now than he could have eaten at the restaurant without Sir's encouragement. 

"Understood, Sir." Then, because he really must  _ be  _ pathetic, because he  _ must  _ be weak, if this was what it took, if this was  _ all  _ it took—

"Thank you, Sir," he whispered, and for the first time in as long as he could remember Bruce felt...

Peace.


	16. Epilogue

> Bruce,
> 
> I enjoyed our session. I'd like to see you again, regularly. Provisional contract en route. Parameters negotiable. If agreed, unlisted number and an envelope will be provided to you at the time of signing.
> 
> **Mr. S**
> 
> ****


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Index of AU Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I waffled over whether or not to include this index, but in the end decided that relevant information might be useful and/or interesting to others.

The **Agency** \- An investment corporation that creates revenue through managing a database of Clients and Providers, facilitating and administering legally binding contracts between them, handling funds transfers between them anonymously, maintaining a standard of quality and confidentiality, building a strong reputation, recruiting new Clients and Providers, and arranging various real estate properties and other amenities to be available for same.

## Agency Departments

 **Archives Department** \- Stores originals of Client Records and creates copies of same for Agents authorized for such things. 5th floor. Same floor as Accounts Payable.

 **Reading Room** \- Part of Archives department. Narrow hallways lined with private cubicles, equipped with full video/audio surveillance everywhere. Lockers at entrance, because electronic scramblers at points of access (no recording equipment allowed to be carried in or it will be fried). Only place Non-Elite can review Client Records; they must walk through Reading Room to Archives Desk (not the VIP one), sign out the Records, study them in Reading Room, then return them. No Records are allowed to leave through Reading Room points of access beyond the Archives Desk.

 **Browsing Room** \- Where Clients browse Provider profiles on-site.

 **Armory** \- Larger or specialized equipment available for loaning out to Providers. Higher Ranks are expected to furnish their own spaces with their own private collection, but might still use these as experimental gear before settling down to master a new skill.

 **Transportation Department** \- manages inventory, sign-out, and maintenance of Agency vehicles for Playdates or transportation to Playdate sites. Files gas slips as submitted with Accounting.

 **Accounts Receivable** \- Accepts double-blind payments from Clients through intermediary bank. Same floor as Archives.

 **Accounts Payable** \- Dispenses payment to Agents from shell company "Wellness Subcontractor". Payroll according to digitally reported hours worked. Once reported hours worked are validated, funds are authorized for transfer. Funds transfer accepted on-site using Heartbeat system.

 **Accounting Department** \- Definition

 **Studio** \- Formally, Photography and Biometrics Department

 **The Exchange** \- Agency on-site bar/cafe/restaurant offering many private rooms, luxury decor, and above all a place to relax where Agency confidentiality rules apply.

Lounge - Below Archives floor. Building foyer or the actual Exchange?

 **Respite** \- Respite because it could honestly be booked by Clients too famous who want privacy without intrusive staff or paparazzi, and also Agents who want a break during crazy days (or Lawyers pulling all-nighters). Suites in the penthouse of Respite are reserved for Elite use. Bells are available for use in-suite at Respite to non-Elites. Repite accesses check for escaping Bells.

 **Hospitality** \- Cryptography, Network Systems Administration /Troubleshooting, and Network Security Division

_"Provider report says they were engaged in R &F. Splatter-pattern distance and volume is not concomitant with reported activity when Client Coded. Report to Archives — we're gonna need an Audit." _

**The Leviathan** \- an underground level of the Agency dedicated to cavernous warehouses for any use as needed (equipment, overflow files, crisis staging areas, seminars of large groups of Providers, larger events for Rank testing or re-certifying groups of Providers).

 **The Maw** \- one of the warehouses of Leviathan. Large enough for the average event requiring a warehouse space; the one most easily and often accessed.

 **The Belly** \- one of the warehouses of Leviathan. Largest horizontal and vertical space; usually reserved for larger projects that should be kept in a single space for security reasons. 

## Agency Staff

 **Agent** \- Anyone on the Agency payroll. Add a bit more info from Recruitment Protocol

 **Courier** \- Agent who specializes in secure transport of Agency hardcopy documentation. Couriers may also deliver one-way or Present-and-Return packages.

 **Scout** \- Agent who specializes in finding new possible Clients or Providers.

 **Facilitator** \- Agent who specializes in matchmaking and handling Contracts. Not necessarily Dynamic. Often a lawyer specializing in Contract Law but with good customer service skills.

 **Provider** \- A Dominant or submissive on the Agency payroll and Providing Services to Clients as arranged by the Agency.

 **Chief Archivist** \- Maintains "The Daily", supervises archiving and copying of Agency Records, signs out Records copies to Elite Providers. Supervises collating of relevant materials for possible legal action and hand-delivers such on-site. Schedules and supervises Archives Reviews.

Archives Review - 

See Correspondence, Recommendation to Invite

 **The Daily** \- Electronic database of Clients available for Contracts. Maintained by Agent Perry White, the Chief Archivist. Accessible only on-site from the Reading Room on its own wired and air-gapped LAN. Providers in general can only access Level 1 Client Profiles; Elite Providers can access Level 2 Client Profiles.

 **Auditor** \- Agents who work under the supervision of Chief Archivist to constantly perform Archives Reviews.

 **Librarian** \- Agent whose role is Reading Room bouncer and enforcer of confidentiality rules there. Usually three work together per shift.

 **Mediator** \- Agents whose role is maintaining security and non-lethal detainment. Often hired specifically for their security skills. These Agents may have backgrounds in military service or law enforcement. Not necessarily Dynamic.

## Agency Concepts

 **Dynamic** \- Identifying as sensitive to Power Exchange, and having a specific role in scale from Dominance to submission.

 **Rank** \- In-house quality control hierarchy (see: Protocols - Registration Stage 3).

  
  
**Relevant Agency Contracts**

#####  **Transient Contract -**

One night stands. Single Playscene, usually 3 hrs including setup and aftercare.

#####  **Preemptive Consent Contract -**

Carte blanche. Considered highly dangerous but offered on demand of Clients who want to sign _something_ and do not wish to wait. This is not an actual guarantee any Provider will consent to Services. Sometimes used in combination with Transient or Provisional contracts where Clients want the Provider to remain anonymous to them since no Provider ID is included. Requires additional contract for Services in order to take effect.

#####  **Provisional Contract -**

Dating with intent to marry. Short term, a handful of scenes, specifically a trial looking for a fit for a longer term contract. In order to be a comprehensive test of dynamic mesh, can include demands outside of playscenes.

**Service Provider Ranks in Ascending Order**

Initiate 

Novice 

Apprentice 

Guide 

Expert 

Elite

**Author's Note:**

>  _Urtica dioica_ \- Stinging Nettles. 
> 
> _Salicylic acid or 2-hydroxybenzoic acid_ \- Can be obtained from willow bark or meadowsweet. It is capable of penetrating and breaking down fats and lipids, causing moderate chemical burns of the skin at very high concentrations. If high concentrations of salicylic ointment are applied to a large percentage of body surface, high levels of salicylic acid can enter the blood, requiring hemodialysis to avoid further complications. 
> 
> _Serotonin or 5-hydroxytryptamine (5-HT)_ \- These compounds are widely present in the leaves of many plants, and may serve as deterrents for animal ingestion. Serotonin is also found in the spines of stinging nettles, triggering pain if the spines are touched, just as its presence in insect venom does.  
> Extremely high levels of serotonin can cause a condition known as serotonin syndrome, with toxic and potentially fatal effects. The intensity of the symptoms of serotonin syndrome vary over a wide spectrum, and the milder forms are seen even at nontoxic levels. Symptoms include high body temperature, agitation, increased reflexes, tremor, sweating, dilated pupils, and diarrhea. Body temperature can increase to greater than 41.1 °C (106.0 °F). Complications may include seizures and extensive muscle breakdown and/or rigidity. With appropriate treatment the risk of death is less than one percent.


End file.
